Going Through the Motions
by penless
Summary: Picks up after My Bloody Valentine, so could be spoilerish. Dean is making himself ill trying to keep Sam out of the demonic radar, at least for a little while. And he definitely doesn't want to talk about his little chat with Famine. Language. COMPLETE
1. Counting the Times

Hi there! Thank you so much for taking the time to read this. This is my first story and so far I have received such wonderful encouragement and support. After receiving someone's very sound advice (you know who you are, and thanks!) and helpful tips I am going through the story and tweaking it and hopefully improving upon it. I hope you enjoy this. There are so many amazing authors and stories on this site, so thanks for checking this one out. I really do appreciate it and I would love it if you reviewed. Cheers!

Disclaimer: Not mine, excluding any errors you find. Those are totally mine.

* * *

It takes one week until Sam finally stops yelling. One week until all's quiet in Bobby Singer's house, in the basement.

Well, six nights and five days, anyway. Not that Dean's counting; he's not really up to doing much. Yet he manages to somehow preoccupy his vacuous time: with a case of beer and the underneath of a random hood in the salvage yard during the day and a bottle of Beam on the porch in the night. Interspersed with hours-long vigils by the demon-proofed iron door of the panic room. Just quietly sitting, listening, Sam making enough noise for the two of them.

It's Bobby who does the counting. How many times Dean's name is cried out by his younger brother, pleading, accusing, beseeching. How many times Dean rubs his forehead or swipes a hand over his mouth, agitated. How many times Dean surreptitiously scrapes his nearly full plate of food in the garbage or feeds it to an eager Rumsfeld the moment Bobby's back is turned. How many times he refuses to talk to Bobby. Not about anything that matters, anyway. Certainly not about what happened with Famine. Cas wasn't exactly generous with the details and Sam's too sick to even know where he is, let alone fill him in on the blank spots. So Bobby bites his tongue and watches Dean struggle. It's a trend that is becoming harder not to notice. With each passing day Dean seems to be more absent from himself, more withdrawn. Being in the same room as the hunter is an increasingly rare occurrence. It's no secret: Dean's a master of avoidance tactics and this week proves exactly that. When Bobby is in the salvage yard Dean is inside, researching. When Bobby's in the house Dean retreats to the basement to hunker down by the safe room door, as close to his brother as possible.

Bobby has yet to see Dean off his feet, though. And that means the elder Winchester probably hasn't been to bed this whole time, which is troubling to Bobby. One glance at the still made bed in the spare room confirms it. Dean and Sam's duffels are still sitting on top of the bed sheets, exactly where the older Winchester tossed them upon their arrival.

Castiel had left.

It's probably for the best and the angel knew it. Privacy is the best offering of comfort that can be provided Dean. Or at least, one less pair of eyes for Dean to have to avoid. The detox is just as hard on the older brother as it is on the younger. That they had dispelled Famine and freed the town from the Horseman's deadly influence can hardly be called a victory at this point. Not when it came at such a cost; not when Dean and Sam had to take two steps back. Back to this damn room. This waiting for the worst to be over, when Dean can finally unlatch the door and bring Sam upstairs to a real room and a real bed. Until then, Dean can't rest. Because Sam sure as hell isn't resting in there.

On the sixth day Bobby has decided enough is enough. The sun is beginning to go down, the day waning as fast as Dean. It's getting late, too late for this shit. With a determined set to his jaw he wheels himself out to the porch. Dean is sitting in his accustomed place: the top step, half empty bottle of booze in hand. When Bobby comes up beside the hunter there's no reaction. The elder man waits patiently for Dean to break the silence. He doesn't have to wait long.

"Something tells me that I'm not going to be crazy over what you're itching to say to me," Dean remarks dryly, squinting up to look at Bobby with whiskey-filmed eyes. The corner of his mouth tightens, into a smirk or a grimace Bobby can't be sure.

"No, I reckon not," Singer begins, "but I'm scratching, all the same."

Dean sighs, looks down, then back up at Bobby again.

"Then by all means, Bobby. Let 'er rip." A terse look, shoulders squared. On the defensive. But Bobby doesn't care how many toes he is figuratively stepping on.

"Boy, I'm sick of this. I know you're not talking about what happened, _but you have to talk._ It doesn't have to be with me, but it has to be with someone. Your brother –"

"My brother has enough on his plate, don't you think?" Dean cuts in, his voice little below a shout. "I mean, I don't know if you've been _listening_, Bobby, but this is the first time since we put him in there that he's been quiet for more than ten minutes. That son of a bitch, Famine, got to him and knocked him off the wagon. Now he's paying the price," Dean falters and takes a long pull of whiskey.

"And you seem to be paying yours," Bobby remarks. "With interest, it looks like. Dean, it's plain as day that you're exhausted. You've been running yourself into the ground since the moment you got here. You spend all day working underneath some wreck in the yard, but can you tell me which one?" He waits for Dean to rise to the challenge, exhales loudly through his nose when no response is prompted. "That's what I thought. You're just going through the motions. You're not eating, yet Rumsfeld seems to be getting fatter with each day. I know you're not sleeping. You need to take care of yourself, you idjit. You ain't helping yourself or Sam doing this."

_You're just going through the motions._ That's the second time Dean has heard that said to him recently.

_ You can't win, and you know it. But you keep fighting, just keep going through the motions. You're not hungry, Dean, because inside you're already dead._

There's a pause in Bobby's tirade. Dean licks his lips, swirls the contents of his bottle and clears his throat lamely. He knows Bobby is waiting for him to say something. "Don't blame me if your dog likes your cooking more than I do," he says half-heartedly, with a shrug. "I thought I was doing the poor mutt a favor. I've seen the slop you give him."

"Dean, I'm just saying-"

"I know what you're saying, damnit." This time, there is no attempt at deflection. Dean meets the older man's gaze squarely, his face stoney. "I really do. But the only way I can take care of myself," he jerks a thumb at himself, "is by taking care of Sam. And I'm not doing that, Bobby. Otherwise, he wouldn't be tethered up and strapped down to a freakin' cot in your panic room. If I had done my job right…Instead, I left him vulnerable." He chuckles in derision. "I handcuffed him to the friggin' bathroom sink in that motel room and left him there for easy pickings. I may as well have shot off some demonic flare gun for him to be found by Famine's cronies. Maybe if I had done my job right I wouldn't have walked into that bastard's trap and needed Sam to come save the day by using his powers. So I know what you're saying, Bobby. But maybe you need to hear what _I'm _saying." Another drink from the bottle and Dean is up on his feet, clearly bringing the conversation, such as it is, to an abrupt end.

"I'm going to haul Sam out of there and take him upstairs where he can get some decent sleep. We through?" Dean doesn't wait for a response from Bobby. His footsteps retreat into the house, the screen door swinging shut behind him.

"Yeah," Bobby sighs to himself, looking out into the salvage yard, looking for answers that aren't not forthcoming. "Yeah, we're through."

* * *

Thanks again!


	2. Upon Waking

Hi, again! Thanks for continuing to read; it is greatly appreciated. Please feel free to share your thoughts.

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

* * *

Sam doesn't remember much.

Still, the small snatches of time that he _is_ able to recollect, the disjointed fragments of memory that slip through pretty much constitute a lifetime when strung together. The dizzying rush of strength, of power. Intoxicating, galvanizing power. The thrum of molten energy, pulsing in his temples, his veins. Just below the surface he is like a roiling sea. He can swallow anything, everything, and crush it with hardly a glimmer of thought. He can cast demons into Hell, he can pull them out of the fleshly bodies they inhabit by simply willing it to be so. The more he drinks the stronger he gets. The more he can do. He feels better than he has ever felt before. It's exhilarating, thrilling. Sickening.

Then there is the hubris of overtaxed reserves; the crashing descent as the last of the fire winks out.

Crushing, squeezing black.

Deafening, roaring silence.

Next comes a feeling of suspended awareness and then there is just simply the feeling of hovering over nothingness. It's pleasant only for the briefest of moments.

Then waking, gasping. Everything is jumbled and wrong, wrong, _wrong. _It's like the air is actually water and he is drowning with every breath. Sounds are needle-sharp and they penetrate into his brain. The light sears his eyes right out their sockets. Everything hurts beyond description and he can't trust anything he sees. Sometimes it's Dad, frowning wordlessly and shaking his head. Disappointed. Or it's mom, and she looks at him like he's a complete stranger. Sometimes it's Ellen and Jo, and they are heart rending because no matter how bad he gets Sam knows they are gone. _He_ came back and _Dean_ came back but the best people, the very precious few, they don't get to come back. The undeserving fall and the ones they died to protect will probably bring the end of days upon the world anyway. It's the worst punch line ever. But the hardest of all is when it's Dean he sees. Dean, who can't stand to even look at his own brother. His disgusting, perverted, freak of a brother. And Sam can scream and scream at him but Dean's indifference is implacable. Not even a finger twitches, and Sam would give the world for Dean to just go ahead and _say something._

"What do you want me to say, Sammy? What? Are you even here? You really awake?"

Sam twists his head, feels how wet the pillow is beneath him. His bed sheets are soaked and he feels like he's dying of thirst. He feels someone thumbing sweat off his face, clearing his blinking eyes. In that second Sam understands that Dean is really here, is sitting with him right now.

"Can you drink some water? Sammy?" A hand slides under his head and a glass of water is pushed to his lips. And Sam is so comforted by the fact that Dean is really, actually here that he relaxes instantly and drifts off to sleep. He's not even sure if he managed to stay awake long enough to drink.

And blessed unconsciousness swoops in and clears most of the debris out of his head.

* * *

Something is up; Sam can tell.

Not like it wasn't perfectly obvious. And Sam wasn't born yesterday. He may have been awake for only a few hours but it took all of five minutes of being around his brother and Bobby before the tension is practically edible, it's that thick. Bobby has a glowering, dark expression and Dean is coldly impassive whenever he's around the older man.

"Sam, it's good to see you up and about," Singer says warmly but solemnly when the younger Winchester enters the kitchen, still slightly wobbly on his feet although the hot shower seems to have helped a great deal. It was the first one he had taken since…uh, well...since. Dean's back is turned, standing over the sink and furiously scrubbing a plate in soapy water. Normally haphazard in matters of tidiness when it comes to living out of a duffel bag in a motel room, the hunter is positively fastidious when staying at someone's home. But even turned away from them like he is, Sam can still tell that Dean is angry. Over the years he's gotten quite practiced at reading the back of his brother and he knows the tells: the tense posture, the set shoulders. Bobby is in the midst of moving from the stove to the kitchen table, a frying pan half full of faintly steaming hash browns in hand while he deftly maneuvers his wheelchair. "Sit down and eat, son. Plenty left here. Shame to throw out _more, _you know."

"Bobby-" Dean growls in warning, the back of his head lifting as he stiffens momentarily. Bobby ignores him pointedly while motioning for the younger Winchester to take a seat. Sam obliges awkwardly, painfully aware that something isn't right between Singer and his brother. Upon smelling the proffered food, however, he is surprised to find his stomach growling. He hadn't expected his appetite to bounce back so quickly. Bobby deposits the hash browns on the plate before Sam and claps the younger Winchester on the shoulder gruffly, although there can be no mistaking the fond squeeze.

Sam feels his cheeks redden and he glances away, eyes stinging. "Thanks, Bobby." Since waking it's pretty much been an ever-circling spiral of shame for the younger Winchester, and Bobby's presence is grounding as always. Blinking rapidly to clear his vision, Sam returns Bobby's smile, albeit a little shakily. "Thanks for, uh, everything." Like that even comes close to covering the extent of it. It sounds lame in his ears. Inadequate.

Bobby rolls his eyes, backing his chair up as he talks. His expression softens and there is a glint in his eyes that takes at least ten years off his face. "Spare me the tearjerker, idjit. And don't think I'm not putting you to work while you're here. It's not all nap time, you know. Like look on after your brother, for one. Before he drives me to the nuthouse." Bobby throws a thumb over his shoulder vaguely towards Dean before moving to roll out the kitchen and down the hall to the study.

"I'll drive you to the nuthouse, all right. Wherever you want, if it keeps you out of my business." Dean snaps at Bobby, though with only half his usual venom, earning him a snort from the elder for his trouble. Sam can see his brother is fuming. Bobby deflects Dean's bad mood like it's a spitball.

"Weak, Dean. Just pathetic." Bobby's voice fades around the corner, chuckling dryly.

Sam closes his eyes for a moment, tense muscles loosening. Just like that, with only a few words, Bobby has helped ease Sam's troubled mind. He feels utterly grateful and a little more human.

Over Sam's shoulder, Dean is clearing his throat. He's shifting his weight from foot to foot. Still washing dishes in a more than brisk manner. Sam raises his eyebrows at the sight.

"Dean, man, you trying to wear the design off the plate? What's up with you and Bobby?"

Dean doesn't answer immediately. Instead he shuts off the water, shaking the excess drops off the plate before placing it in the dish rack. Throwing the towel over his shoulder, he rolls his neck and turns to face Sam, leaning against the counter. He clears his throat again. "Nothing, Sam. Nothing's up. It's a small house and he's a big pain in the ass. Bad mix." Dean juts a chin toward the younger Winchester. "More importantly, how you doing? You sure you're feeling up to being out of bed?"

Sam presses a thumb and index finger to his eyes, dropping his hand to his lap after a couple of seconds. When he looks up he knows he must look as tired as he feels. Looking at Dean, he is sure his brother can relate. The older Winchester looks absolutely wiped. It occurs to Sam that all his waking memories over the past week of this crapshoot that is his life have Dean in them. He wonders how that can be, unless Dean was near at hand the whole time, waiting for Sam to stir. He is about to open his mouth to ask his brother if he's had even one night of straight sleep since they came to Bobby's but then thinks better of it. He already knows he wouldn't receive an honest answer. He is no stranger to Dean's recurrent insomnia, his outright refusal to shut down for a few hours and just fall asleep. So Sam smiles wearily and gives the lie back: "I'm good. I feel fine."

If Dean thinks about calling bullshit he doesn't give any indication. He turns to the sink and pulls the plug to let the water out. A loud sucking sound fills the room. When Dean turns back to Sam, he's smiling back at his brother.

"Good, Sam. That's really good. Cause I'm going stir crazy here. I found us a hunt the other day. How do you feel about us taking off tomorrow? Climb back in the saddle with a good old fashioned salt 'n burn to get our sea legs back?"

"Dude, saddles and sea legs. Two metaphors I have never heard you mix before. You must be serious."

"Deadly serious, Sam. You're not as exciting to watch sleep as you may think you are. You were out cold in the guest room for a solid twelve hours. I thought the boredom alone was going to kill me." _If the worry didn't first, that is. _Dean raises his arm and coughs lightly into his elbow. "So don't go all wilted flower on me. If you wanna sleep more on the road, fine. Whatever you need. I washed the blankets in the Impala's trunk while you were a drooling, convalescing lump. They don't smell like onion rings anymore, I promise. What say, Samantha?"

Sam regards Dean for a couple silent moments before answering. There was something Dean had just said that sounded familiar. A murky memory from the not-so-distant past dredges itself up to the surface: waking in fear, unaware of where he is. He's lying down and there is a strong hand gripping his bicep firmly. Keeping him anchored when he feels like he is being buffeted in a storm. There are so many noises in his head, so much sound to decipher. He knows that something isn't right. Something, someone isn't good. Is it him? Is he in trouble? Is Dean? Then he hears a voice, whispering to him.

_If you wanna sleep more, fine. Whatever you need, Sammy. I got this. I always got this. You're safe. I promise. _It's Dean's voice, murmuring to him, cutting through the white noise. Sam remembers now. It was in the panic room, and Dean had roused him out of a nightmare.

Sam swallows the lump in his throat. Dean lifts an eyebrow at him, waiting for an answer. _I got this._ _I promise._ In the pit of his stomach, it feels like Sam is trying to digest a rock. He has a bad feeling about this, but looking at Dean he can tell that there is just no arguing with him. Something in his eyes stops him from trying. Against his better judgment, Sam ducks his head and forces a smile at his expectant brother, trying to quell the uneasy feeling in his gut.

"Sure, Dean. Sounds great. It'll be good to hit the road." Sam takes a bite of hash browns. They taste bitter.

* * *

A/N: It's a slow starter, I know. Things pick up.


	3. A Long Way to Washington

I hope you are still enjoying the story. Thanks again for reading.

Disclaimer: Supernatural isn't mine.

* * *

Aside from Sam's recent return to the world of the waking, Dean's day after his conversation with his brother is pretty much a repeat of the day previous: beer, car, and evasion. Sam is willing to allow it, if it means getting some answers for himself.

"So, Bobby," the younger Winchester steps into the study with trepidation, unsure whether or not Bobby's preference for giving Dean a wide berth went for both brothers. Just because Bobby has opened his doors to them–again- and given them a roof to sleep under doesn't change the circumstances that brought them there in the first place. Bobby may be glad to see Sam on the right side of humanity again but it doesn't make any of this easy. Poisoned or not by Famine's infection, Sam still stabbed that possessed woman's neck back in that hotel room and drank. He drank and he drank and gleefully finished off the other one as well. And Bobby had seen what Dean had brought through his front door, and it wasn't his little brother. Not at that moment, anyway. Sam clears his throat roughly, fighting the revulsion that is suddenly coiling in his stomach. He can't think about that right now.

"So, Sam," the elder hunter counters and moves a stack of newspapers off a worn leather chair, indicating that Sam should sit, which he promptly does. Leaning forward, the younger Winchester nervously rubs the palms of his hands back and forth across the top of his jeans. Bobby doesn't fail to notice; he looks vaguely amused. "If you're fixing to ask me to the prom let me spare you the trouble," he gestures at his legs. "Not much of a dancer these days."

Sam unglues his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "Fair enough," he bemuses. He makes a concerted effort to stop fidgeting. "Bobby, you got any idea where this hunt is Dean found? And where's Cas? Wasn't he here?"

"Oh, sure. Cas was here." Bobby makes fluttering motions with his fingers. "But he flitted off shortly after they got you settled in…there." There is no need to specify where "there" is. "Haven't seen him since. Can't say I miss him overly. Not much of a conversationalist. As for this hunt your brother's sniffed out, I know about as much as you do: just your everyday schoolhouse haunting. Haven't a clue where. Or _why_ he's keeping a tight lip about it, for that matter." Bobby pauses for a moment, and he has an appraising look on his face as he gives Sam a hard look, suddenly serious.

"What I can tell you, Sam, is that the boy ain't right. Less than usual, anyway. I'd keep a close watch. Don't let him do anything too stupid. I know that's a broad term where that idjit is concerned, but I mean it. I don't pretend to know what happened back there with Famine and I know damn well it's not my business, but mark my words. Something's wrong, and I mean it."

Sam swallows and nods, frowning in thought. "I know," he says.

He means it, too.

* * *

The next morning is cold. And miserable. Sam would be tempted to plead inclement weather if Dean wasn't so obviously raring to go. He seems to be in a remarkably good mood, whistling cheerfully to himself while he hefts his duffel over his shoulder, nimbly jumping off the last step of the front porch and making his way to the Impala. Bobby shares Sam's less than enthusiastic sentiment but both men keep the peace about it. Yet nothing could stifle the obvious scowl of disapproval on Bobby's face when Dean turns around after stuffing his gear in the trunk. It's enough to stop Dean in his tracks and he throws up his hands in exasperation at the older man.

"What?" Dean asks, and then coughs into his sleeve. Then coughs some more. Okay, so maybe Bobby can't keep his mouth _completely _shut.

The elder hunter rolls his eyes. "Nothin,'" he says. "Just admiring the view, is all. You look like crap, kid." Understatement of the year. Dean is pale and washed out looking. It hasn't escaped Sam's attention, either. Of course, he also knows that when Dean feels backed into a corner the last thing that can be gotten out of him is admittance. So he doesn't press it, and thankfully Bobby knows enough to keep quiet beyond his two cents. Cheerful or not, it doesn't take much to get Dean riled these days and a moody Dean on a long drive is the last thing anyone wants.

Sam steps in front of his brother, interrupting in a timely fashion. "Bobby, we don't know how to repay you. Thanks again for helping us. If it weren't for you-"

"If it weren't for me," Bobby cuts in, "you idjits would find some other rock to crawl under. Don't thank me for anything." He pauses meaningfully. "You boys look after yourselves, y'hear?" He extends a hand, which Sam clasps gladly.

"You bet, Bobby. You too. We'll be in touch."

"Yeah, yeah," Bobby grumbles harmlessly while a quietly smiling Sam climbs into the passenger side of the Impala. Dean gives a mock shake of his head and steps forward to offer the elder hunter a handshake of his own. All tenseness from the last few days has gone from his face, and he is grinning lopsidedly. His game face. Bobby knows that expression too well.

"We'll be seeing you, Bobby. You look after yourself, too." Bobby ignores the extended hand and reaches out and pulls the startled hunter into a quick hug, giving a thump on his back that's a little harder than is strictly necessary.

"I'm serious, Dean. Take care of yourselves. You get into anything, you call me. And try and have a demon-free day for once, would ya?"

Dean straightens to give Bobby a playful knock on the shoulder. "Come on, Bobby. No tearful goodbyes." More diversion, which is exactly what Bobby comes to expect from a Winchester. It's pretty much par for the course and so the older man just nods his head and gives Dean a knowing look.

"I'm not getting weepy-eyed. I'm giving you a lecture; there's a difference. And that's because someone needs to. Now scat before I change my mind and let the air out of your tires so I can keep my eye on you."

"I'll consider myself warned, but try it and die, old man," Dean chuckles roughly, his voice gravelly. He clears his throat (Bobby wonders for what nth time it's been now) and flips the collar of his jacket up against the chill of the morning air. Never one to draw things out, the older Winchester gets in the Impala and shuts the door without a glance back. Turning the key in the ignition, Dean meets Sam's eyes for a moment before pulling away carefully so as not to leave Bobby eating his dust. Glancing in his rearview mirror, he feels a sharp pang in his heart at the sight of the man he respects like his own father in that friggin' chair. Something else Dean should have prevented. Another strike on the record.

And if that wasn't just a bitch.

Sam does take Dean up on his offer to rest on the road. He doesn't feel tired initially but it's already noon and he's been dozing on and off pretty steadily since around ten that morning. The sliding landscape blurs around the peripherals of his vision and it's easier just to keep his eyes closed rather than deal with the disorientation. He feels the last of the vestiges of weariness leaving him, though, and it's a relief.

Dean, on the other hand, is another story.

He wouldn't dream of admitting it willingly, but he feels completely spent, both physically and emotionally. He's putting up an effort to not appear as such, but even Dean knows he has limits. Bobby was right; he isn't eating. Not more than a couple of bites at a time, at any rate. And sure, a large part of it was due to the fact that he was feeling guilty as hell for what happened to Sam. But all in all, he just feels like crap and food isn't appealing to him. He's not hungry.

_You're not hungry, Dean, because inside you're already dead._

Boy, that is one memory Dean wishes he could kick to the curb. Famine, what a douche. The hunter snorts to himself, rubbing a hand over his mouth. Fine. Be that as it may, somehow he doubts that the dead can feel this nauseous. One thing is certain, however: he's resolved to put the events that transpired in that diner behind him. No need to rehash anything over with Sam, nope. He was all cranked up on demon blood at the time, anyway, so who knows how much he would be able to recall from that night. Whatever his little brother remembered, he remembered. The rest wasn't a need to know.

In his jacket pocket his cell phone buzzes at him. He isn't surprised when he checks the caller ID.

Castiel.

His thumb hits the reject button –_Sorry, Cas- _and he stuffs the phone back in his pocket, glancing over at Sam to make sure he didn't wake. He could rest for a bit longer and Dean wouldn't mind. Quickly squelching any additional guilt he feels about ditching Cas, the elder brother grimaces and rolls his stiff shoulders in an attempt to relieve achy muscles. If it was important the angel would leave a message and he'll check his voicemail at the next gas station. The world couldn't possibly be ending within that short amount of time.

Right now, with how tired he's feeling, Dean isn't sure if he could possibly bring himself to care even if it was.

* * *

Sam wakes up to something cold landing in his lap out of nowhere. His body jerks as he comes to, and Dean chuckles. He sits himself up higher and looks around while opening the bottle of water his brother has tossed at him, head fuzzy from sleep. They're at a gas station at a turn-off right by the highway. It's late afternoon by the looks of things. He rubs at his eyes and mentally berates himself for sleeping so long. After this, he's pretty sure he won't need to sleep again until next month.

"Getting pretty sloppy with the reflexes there, Samantha." Dean shakes his head with a grin and throws the Impala into drive but then frowns and pulls out his cell phone, which is madly vibrating in his hand. With a quick glance at the screen, Dean slams the car back into park with an irritable sigh and opens the door, half outside already before Sam can get two words out.

"Since when do you take calls outside the car?" he asks, eyebrows drawing up.

"Since you smell like ass, that's when." Dean slams the door and stalks off, bringing his phone to his ear.

Sam sighs and settles back, capping his water and reaching into the plastic bag Dean had brought out with him. He finds two wrapped sandwiches, two more bottles of water, and a package of M&Ms. There are two steaming cups of coffee nestled snugly in a tray next to the bag, and Sam carefully pries his cup free and takes an appreciative swallow. The chill of the day is muted through the glass windshield as the sun beats down in a silver wintery glow. The hunter reaches out and turns the heater down, and the reduced noise is replaced by another sound: Dean's voice, speaking heatedly. Sam can't make out the words but can see his brother's free hand gesturing wildly as he talks to whoever is on the other end of the line. From the looks of things that person is getting an earful.

After a couple minutes Dean takes the phone from his ear and frowns, flipping it shut and stuffing it away aggressively. He gets back into the Impala and throws it into gear, pulling away so sharply the tires squeal – something that would earn Sam a black eye, if he were to try it. Squealing tires is another one of Dean's tells. It means he's pissed, pure and simple.

"So, you feel like telling me who that was? And why it's got you in such a sour mood?" Sam asks, passing Dean his cup of coffee. He's not sure if Dean heard him, but after a couple of seconds Dean glances over, adjusting his hold on the hot beverage carefully.

"No one. I mean, yeah, someone. It was just Cas. No big deal. He just woke up on the wrong side of the cloud, is all. Wants us to drop everything and go meet him over in Minnesota to check into some demon possessions. Nothing he can't handle on his own. I told him we're headed in the opposite direction. I got you some sandwiches, Sam. Eat up."

Sam will not allow himself to be sidetracked by sandwiches. "And where _are _we headed, exactly? Dean, you have to admit, I've been pretty good at rolling with the punches so far with this hunt, but I'm a little tired of being kept in the dark. What's going on with you?"

"Nothing's _going on_ with me, Sam." Dean is clearly not in the mood for an argument but also recognizes that his brother has a point. "And I'm not keeping you in the dark, either. You wanted me to tell you while you were sleeping? Seattle. We're going to Seattle. There's a school I thought we'd go check out." He takes a long gulp of his coffee and Sam waits for him to continue. "Last month the janitor gets creamed by a car while crossing the street and now weird things keep happening. The newspaper's in the backseat if you can reach it, Sasquatch arm."

Of course Sam can reach it. The page is dog-eared and he turns to it and scans the article. He squints up. "Dean, the janitor's replacement is claiming that someone is breaking into the school in the middle of the night and…waxing the floors. Why didn't you say something in the first place? This is awful. What are we going to do?"

Dean barely suppresses a glare. Instead, he coughs into his elbow for a prolonged period of time. When he's done, Sam wordlessly passes him a bottle of water and Dean swipes it out of his hand and takes a swallow. His now-empty coffee cup has been discarded into the plastic bag that contains the sandwiches. Somehow, Dean has managed to down the hot beverage in record time. It's a testament to how tired he must be feeling. Sam makes a mental note but doesn't mention anything. One issue at a time.

"Keep reading, smartass. It says in there that the school has had four student suspensions and one expulsion in the last month. They were all on the honor roll and one was even the high school council president. We're talking nice kids, Sam. They started acting up right after the janitor becomes road jam. And the one who was expelled? Missing ever since. " Dean reaches over and taps a photo in the article, presumably the missing student. Sam looks harder and realizes that, yes, he recognizes the face. It's been on the news: Tate Burke, age 16. One morning his mom goes up to his room to wake him up for school and finds his bed empty. At this point foul play isn't suspected, but his parents are claiming there is no possible explanation as to why he would want to run away: his parents are happily married, he's got lots of friends, gets good grades, has a girlfriend. An all around good kid. From the sounds of it, getting expelled from school doesn't seem to fit the profile. Although the article does mention Tate's expulsion, it does not elaborate as to why or what he had done.

"So you think the janitor's spirit is pissed and taking it out on people by making good kids go bad, and…cleaning?" It sounds plausible, well, the part about the strange behavior from the kids. They've gone after hunts with a lot less evidence. But Sam has yet to put his finger on what's been puzzling him. "And why has a phone call from Cas got you so hot and bothered?"

Dean gives him his patronizing "smarten up" look before answering. "For one, hot and bothered? Please. And two, it's not _a _phone call, Sam. You wouldn't know this because you've been taking an extended siesta all day, but he's been calling me every other damn minute." As if to prove his point, there is a faint buzzing suddenly emanating from his pocket. Dean shoots Sam his follow up facial expression to his "smarten up" glance, the patented Dean Winchester I-told-you-so look and brandishes his phone's screen to his brother. Sure enough, it's the angel calling. The phone's ringer is off and set to vibrate, which explains why the phone calls hadn't woken him. But something still isn't quite right with this picture. Sam's not convinced that Dean's telling him everything. Given his brother's track record with truthfulness, Sam feels entitled to his suspicion.

"So that wasn't the first time you talked to him today?" Sam presses, eyebrow cocked.

Dean shakes his head. "Nope, talked to him a little after lunch when I made a pit stop."

Sam shakes his head. "Wait. So when you talked to him earlier, we were still in South Dakota?"

"Yeah. So?"

"Dean," Sam is sounding like a weary parent trying to talk sense into a small child. "Minnesota is a _hell_ of a lot closer to South Dakota than Washington is. And you're telling me you didn't want to go there first and check things out? When Cas is telling you there is for sure demonic activity going on? I don't understand."

"Sam," Dean parrots the exasperated tone in his brother's voice, "it wasn't anything major. Nothing Cas can't handle by himself, anyway. It's not another Horseman or Lucifer. It's no big deal. It would have been a waste of gas." The phone stops buzzing and goes silent for all of ten seconds before it starts up again. Dean shoots another look at Sam. His point about Cas's incessant calling has been made abundantly clear. It only further convinces the younger brother that he's been getting the abridged version of the whole story.

"And like this isn't? You don't think there was anyone in the area already who could have looked into this, when we're how many states away? It doesn't sound like anyone's in danger of dying at this school, and if it's just a simple salt 'n burn like you figure it is then what's the rush? I don't get what's going on with you."

Abruptly the phone stops vibrating in Dean's hand and the light behind the caller ID screen dies. Dean idly flips the phone open in his hand and glances down at it. "Battery's dead," he pronounces without much care and tosses the phone into the backseat. "Nothing's going on, Sam. Is it just me or is this conversation starting to sound like a broken record? There's nothing wrong, just an angel with separation anxiety. Some time apart from us will be good for him. Absence makes the heart grow larger."

"Fonder, you mean."

"Whatever, dude."

Now Sam is _positive _something's amiss here. He accepts that he has clearly gotten everything out of his brother that he is willing to divulge for the time being. He drops the subject for now and settles into broody silence. Dean does the same, disturbing the peace only when he coughs into his sleeve, his attempts at muffling the sound altogether ineffectual. Sam lets the increasingly frequent cough slide, too, because Dean's state of health is clearly also on the list of non-subjects, along with whatever transpired in his and Castiel's phone conversation. Not to mention the events of the past week. The demon blood (again). Famine. The diner. The exorcism Dean watched him perform, mouth agape in shock. And most important of all, what Dean doesn't think Sam heard the Horseman say to his brother. He sighs inwardly. Glares out the window. Starts to think maybe he should have kicked up a fuss back in Bobby's kitchen when Dean told him he wanted to go on this hunt.

Talk about a long drive.

* * *

The next time they stop for gas, the late afternoon has given way to early evening. It's getting colder again. About thirty minutes earlier Sam had practically forced one of the sandwiches on his brother, coercing him with the threat that he wouldn't eat unless Dean did, too. It's a classic Sam Winchester play. It worked –somewhat- and Dean held his hand out with a long-suffering sigh while Sam took the wrapping off. They were chicken salad sandwiches, usually not Dean's preference, which means they were obviously purchased with Sam in mind. Now Dean is looking a little green as he props the hood up to check the Impala's fluids.

"Dean, you okay? You look like you're gonna be sick." Sam's concern ratchets up a notch when Dean raises the back of his hand to his mouth for a moment, obviously struggling with himself.

The elder brother flicks a glance at Sam and raises his hand from his mouth to wipe at his forehead. When he speaks, his voice is shaky.

"Yeah, Sam. Just…you got this?" It's clear he's losing the battle.

"Yeah, man. I got it. Go before you throw up all over the engine."

Dean needs no further prompting and spins to hurriedly head inside and locate the bathroom. Sam watches after him to make sure he gets there okay. Through the storefront windows he can make out his brother's form vanishing down the aisle to his intended destination. He tells himself to check for some anti-nausea medication. And maybe something to help with the coughing, which is sounding progressively worse.

By the time Sam tops up the fuel and washer fluid, purchases more water and some cough drops and moves the car around to the side of the gas station, Dean still hasn't emerged. Sam is definitely worried. Going in there and checking to make sure his brother hasn't fallen in the toilet is starting to sound like a good idea. He almost does, until he remembers Dean's phone is in the backseat. Sam doesn't have Castiel's number programmed in his own cell, but Dean does. And it doesn't matter that the battery is dead. He grabs his and Dean's phones and opens them both up. It takes two seconds to get the SIM cards switched, and in a matter of moments Sam has his phone up and running and is scrolling through Dean's contacts. He finds Cas in there and is just about to hit the call button when movement ahead of him catches his eye. It's Dean, making his shuffling way back to the car. Sam pockets both phones for now and gets out of the Impala and meets his brother halfway.

Dean looks terrible. There is no denying he's sick at this point. His face is devoid of all colour, which is to be expected from someone who has just spent the last ten minutes throwing their guts up. Dean angles his direction to the driver's side of the Impala, but Sam blocks him with a hand on his elbow. "No way, brother," Sam says forcefully. "Get in the passenger side. I'm driving."

"Whatever, Samantha." Dean is too tired to argue. When he gets in the car the first thing he does is wrap his arms around himself and suppress a shiver. Sam notices and flicks the heater on higher.

"You cold? Want me to grab a blanket from the trunk?"

Dean shakes his head. "It's fine, Sam. Let's just get going already." Sam doesn't say anything else, instead offers Dean a bottle of water, which he takes, and the cough drops, which he rolls his eyes at.

* * *

Sam knows that Dean is going to be pissed that he stopped at a motel for the night. The older brother had already made clear his intentions of driving straight through to Washington earlier that day. But that was before he started mumbling in his sleep, shivering and sweating simultaneously. A couple of times he had startled himself awake and immediately started coughing raggedly. Sam winced every time a fit took hold of Dean. It sounded awful, like there was ten pounds of crap in his lungs and chest that couldn't be dislodged. He is tempted to stop somewhere and get his brother something stronger than cough drops but worries that any cough suppressant would cause more harm than good. Dean needed to clear his lungs and the way to do that was to cough the gunk out, not stifle the urge. So instead he presses Tylenol on his older brother with copious amounts of water. Dean permits it only because he is allowed to drift off to sleep again when Sam is through. Or something that at least resembles sleep, albeit a poor imitation. He can't sink deep enough into unconsciousness without being pulled awake by more coughing to be actually getting healing rest. Another excellent reason to stop for the night.

Pulling up to their room at the dive of the evening, Sam turns the Impala off and gets their bags out of the back as quietly as he can. He'll come back for Dean after he has their stuff in the room already. That way Dean would put up less of a fight, knowing Sam already had them settled down for the night.

The room was fine, or fine enough. It wasn't overly dingy and the carpets didn't look too stained. Best yet, the beds didn't look uncomfortable. Sam throws both bags on the floor and tugs the blankets down on what would be Dean's bed, preparing it for his brother so that he can slide in between the sheets without a struggle.

Now for the difficult part.

Opening the passenger door of the Impala as quietly as possible, Sam gently shakes his brother awake. Dean rouses sluggishly, blinking and coughing, confused to see his brother standing beside him and not behind the wheel. He swallows and pants softly. That's another thing he's been doing for the last hour or two. It's like he can't get a deep breath in and can only get air with rapid, shallow intakes. Sam can feel Dean shivering, even through his layers of clothing. He's also looking flushed.

Dean looks at Sam, bewildered. "Sam? You okay?" His voice is raspy and he coughs. Sam keeps a hand on his brother's shoulder and waits for the fit to pass.

"Yeah, dude. Everything's fine. We're at a hotel, all checked in. I got our stuff inside the room already. Hopefully I don't have to carry you in there, too." Sam tries for a smile. It's a weak one at best.

"Like hell you will, bitch." Dean throws his arms out and pulls himself out of the seat. Sam closes the car door after him, walking one step behind his unsteady brother. Dean rubs his face, trying to rouse himself into awareness. "I thought we agreed on driving all the way through."

"I didn't agree to anything, brother. Besides, you would do better with sleeping on a bed and not in the Impala." Sam ushers his brother through the door and Dean pushes his hands off of him, shrugging off the help.

"No argument there," Dean mumbles, sitting heavily on the bed. He has his head in his hands, staring at the floor between his feet. Breathes in, coughs again. Sam throws Dean a withering glance.

"Dude, either get under the sheets or go have a hot shower. You're done for the night." Dean doesn't say anything back immediately, just toes off his boots and pulls his jacket off. When he does respond, his voice sounds crackly.

"Shower it is, then." He makes his way to the bathroom and shuts the door to keep the steam in. Moments later, Sam can hear water running.

He waits a couple of minutes just to be sure Dean is indeed having a shower before taking out his cell phone, still with Dean's SIM card inside. Two seconds later he's hit the call button and the line barely rings once before Cas picks up.

"Dean? Why haven't you been answering your phone? Where are you?"

Sam almost doesn't know what to say. It's been the first time since…it…happened that he's talked to the angel.

"Cas, it's Sam. I need you to tell me what's going on."

* * *

A/N: Reviews are strongly encouraged and greatly appreciated.


	4. The More You Know

Not much to say, except thanks so much for reading!

Disclaimer: Seriously, they're not mine.

* * *

There is only the slightest pause on the other end of the line. When Castiel speaks again there is no accusation in the angel's voice.

"Sam? Are you and Dean all right?"

Sam could have laughed if it wasn't so unutterably sad. _Relative to what?_ Sure, they were all right. All right for two brothers who were just barely recovering from being complete strangers to each other. All right for a demon-blood junkie who just can't seem to stay away and a man who must bear the weight of the knowledge that he's the one who started and now must stop the Apocalypse. They're doing okay. Not bad for a couple of dudes who have Lucifer himself and the archangel Michael circling overhead like vultures, waiting for the chance to play Winchester dress up. They were breathing; they weren't in immediate danger. That was as all right as it got.

"Yeah, Cas. We're good. What-"

"Sam," Castiel cut the younger Winchester off, his voice low and urgent. "I need you to tell me where you are. There have been…developments I must inform you both of. I-"

"SAM!"

The jig is up. Sam can't do much besides turn his guilty face towards his brother, who is standing in the bathroom doorway partially dressed, fingers of steam escaping from the still running shower behind him. Dean looks beyond annoyed as he coughs roughly into the crook of his elbow.

"Sam, I swear to God. If you tell him where we are," the elder Winchester growls a warning when he has his breath again. Sam opens his mouth to say something back in challenge.

_Shit, he looks sick._

"Sam, listen to me. I believe you both are in danger, but especially Dean. It's important that I see you right awa-"

"Dude! Whatever he's telling you, _I'm_ telling you don't listen." A sudden looks crosses Dean's face: half questioning, half understanding. "Sam, did you sneak his number behind my back?" Then he just looks betrayed. His shoulders slump a little and he half turns away and buries his face in his arm to cough again.

It's at that moment Sam becomes angry. This Dean, this version of his brother in front of him, it's not right. There was a time in the not-so-distant past when the elder Winchester would have been furious with Sam. Normally he would already have yanked the phone right out of his hand, cutting the angel off right then and there. Instead, Dean just looks resigned and tired. It makes Sam feel useless and cumbersome to know that he's part of that burden Dean carries around, like he's baggage. He doesn't want to see Dean like this. What he wants is for Dean to get angry for once, if only for his own sake. He wants to see Dean fight for himself, _just fight,_ even if it's over a trivial thing like a phone call.

There's a thin moment shared between the two brothers and the angel. Dean stands and shivers, teeth beginning to chatter. He wraps his arms around himself, coughing endlessly. Sam wavers momentarily, guilt and self-doubt creeping into the back of his mind. Maybe Dean is too sick for a showdown?

As if in answer to Sam's unspoken question, Dean does something that absolutely shocks him. The elder brother turns and disappears into the bathroom and a moment later the shower is abruptly turned off. He reappears and shuffles across the room, brushing past Sam as he does so. Turning his back on his younger brother, he pushes his jeans off and steps out of them.

Climbs quietly into bed.

"Fine, Sam," Dean can barely say the words without coughing. "Invite him over. You two can have your bitchfest. I'm going to sleep; screw the shower. Like you said, I'm done for the night." Just like that, he's given up. And Sam feels terrible, like he's pushed Dean to it.

Sam Winchester, demon child virtuoso, destined vessel for Lucifer. World's worst little brother.

He relents and decides on a temporary retreat. Dean isn't up for this and suddenly neither is he. He clears his throat, redirects his attention to the angel on the phone. "Cas, uh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called you right now like this. It's been a long drive, you know?" He tries for a laugh, but his voice wavers slightly. "We're just…we're tired, man. But we're headed to Seattle. We'll be there tomorrow sometime. We'll be in touch with you then." Sam hangs up before he changes his mind and blurts out their location. He powers the phone off and tosses it to the bedside table. He reaches for a bottle of water he'd carried in with their bags and moves to Dean's bed. Tries to ignore the scalding glare his brother is giving him.

"You just had to tell him we were going to Seattle, huh? Couldn't keep quiet," Dean rasps before being thrown into another coughing fit. Sam uncaps the water and waits for his brother to pull himself up against the headboard before passing the bottle.

"Cas said it was important, and you know what? I believe him, Dean."

"Well, what isn't important these days?" Dean snaps back. His hand is shaking and water sloshes out onto his lap. "You didn't have to go skulking around making covert phone calls behind my back."

"You're right, I didn't have to. Especially if my brother had just been honest with me in the first place. You knew that Cas was trying to tell us something and you lied to me about it, so don't even, Dean. And I don't skulk."

"I didn't lie, Sam. I just…I didn't divulge _every_ detail of my conversation with him to you."

Sam snorts at his brother's weak defence. "Which is the same as lying, as you've pointed out to me before. But let's just move on, okay? No fighting. I'm not going to be pissed that you lied, and you are going to deal with the fact that we're meeting with Cas in Seattle. Besides" –he eyeballs Dean, who can't stop shivering- "I'm sure we could use his help on this…whatever this hunt is. You look like crap and you can't tell me you're not sick. And I don't mean, 'little cold' kind of sick. I think you might have bronchitis or something."

Whatever it is, it's not good. Sam can see how much effort it's taking Dean to stay sitting up in bed and he's shocked at how rapidly downhill his health seems to be slipping. He wonders how he hadn't seen it coming. As soon as he thinks it, he's berating himself.

_You know why. Because you haven't exactly been in the game this past week. Dean's been getting sick and he's been keeping it to himself because he had a brother to put through demon-blood detox. Again. _

Sam Winchester, drinker of blood, destroyer of trust. Disappointer of brothers.

He should have seen this coming, anyway. Post-hell Dean is much harder on himself than his pre-hell version ever had been. By miles. A crash and burn was inevitable.

It's like Dean knows what's going through his brother's mind. He reaches out a shaky hand and pats at Sam.

"It's okay, Sammy. It's okay." He lets himself slide down under the blankets again and slowly rolls over, gently breaking off the conversation.

It never is okay, but Sam tries to believe his brother.

* * *

It's a night filled with the sounds of Dean's tossing and turning. And coughing. Sam sleeps lightly, jerking back awake every so often when Dean's restlessness gets pronounced. Eventually, the older Winchester quiets down and the sound of his hoarse breathing fills the room.

When Sam comes fully awake it's only slighter after six in the morning; Dean's been out like a light for a couple of hours now. The younger Winchester quietly gets dressed. Grabbing a pen and paper, he scribbles a hasty note and drops it beside the radio on the bedside table.

_Went out for some things. Back soon, with coffee. Sam._

Sam remembers passing by a 24-hour drugstore not that far off from the hotel, and that is exactly where he's headed. It's clear that whatever Dean is ailing from, simple Tylenol alone won't cut it.

Before long he's cruising the aisles, scanning various bottles of pills and liquids. He finds anti-nausea pills first off, and then searches for cough expectorant in hopes of it helping Dean with getting the crap out of his lungs. He also loads up on more Tylenol. On the way to the register he grabs a couple of bottles of ginger ale from the pop cooler.

On the drive back to the hotel, Sam stops and fills the Impala's tank and grabs two large coffees at the gas station. He's only gone for barely half an hour but he's still worried during that time, like maybe something could have happened to his brother in his absence.

He needn't have worried. When he steps back into the room he can see that Dean hasn't even so much as rolled over. He steps over to the bed and sets down the coffee and supplies on the bedside table.

"Dean? Dean, hey." Sam grips his brother's shoulder and gently squeezes. Dean feels decidedly warm. "Come on, dude. Wake up for a second."

"S'm? You g'd?" Bleary eyes crack open and Dean raises a hand to his forehand. His pulse flutters at the side of his neck.

"Yeah, man. I'm good. I've brought you presents. Sit up and take them."

Dean groans softly and slowly starts to sit up, Sam keeping a hand on his brother's elbow. He's shocked that Dean allows it. The older Winchester glances at the cough medicine.

"Sam, I think we may have two very different opinions on what constitutes a present." He's still rubbing his forehead gingerly, clearly in pain.

Sam chuckles wryly. "Never underestimate the gift of clear airways. Just take it and shut up, okay? Then you can have coffee." He doubts the caffeine is a good idea, but sometimes you have to tempt a kid with ice cream before you can get him to eat his broccoli.

"You have coffee? Good. What time is it?" Dean looks at the clock and groans. "God, Sam. It's early yet." He starts to cough again, and this time once he gets going he can't seem to stop.

"Dean, man. Try and breathe before you pass out." Sam tries not to sound worried, but he's doing a piss poor job and they both know it. He shakes the bottle of cough expectorant before measuring out the dosage. Once Dean has control over himself he takes the medicine without argument, which is out of character for the older brother. Sam pushes the Tylenol on Dean next, and he takes the pills with a swallow of coffee.

"You can go back to sleep for a couple more hours, if you need. There's no rush."

Dean shakes his head. "No, I'm good. Now that I'm awake I won't be able to go back to sleep. Let's just hit the road. If I get tired I'll sleep in the Impala." The unspoken "you'll be driving" is apparent to Sam. He's glad that Dean isn't being too stubborn to admit that he's in no shape to drive, but deep down there is a small part of him that wishes for the old Dean, the Dean that would have fought tooth and nail before giving in and handing over the keys.

Then again, he seems to be wishing for a lot of things these days.

* * *

When Sam wakes Dean, the older Winchester feels relief over being pulled from the murky nightmare. Upon waking, however, he learns he feels just as terrible conscious as he did asleep. His head aches, his body hurts, and he's alternately shivering and burning. His body is sending him strange, disconcerting messages. Against his skin, the sheets are scratchy. Sam's hand on his bicep is cold, the faint pressure of his grasp painful. Against his back, the headboard is like a wall of ice. He's shivering but he's also sweating. He feels a near painful heaviness in his chest. When he breathes he wants to cough until he throws up. He almost does the second he sits up and starts to talk, coughing until he runs out of air.

He takes the medicine partly to please Sam, but mostly he takes it because he knows he's not doing so hot. He has to pull himself together if he doesn't want his baby brother babysitting his sorry ass, and if that means taking some stupid cough medicine to do it, then whatever. He'd stand on his head if he had to. He didn't pursue this hunt to sit on the sidelines, after all.

When he's done with the cough medicine and the Tylenol he gets out of bed and heads to the bathroom for that shower he reneged on last night. It helps him feel a little more alert but he's still chilled when he climbs out.

When Sam throws their duffels in the trunk and they slide into the Impala's front seat, Dean's grateful. He closes his eyes.

* * *

By the time Sam pulls into the diner, he's starving. He can honestly say he can't remember the last time he's been behind the wheel for so long. _With Dean still alive, of course._

The thought gets pushed ruthlessly aside. There will be no thinking of those four months when Dean was down under for the next thirty minutes. That's the goal, anyway. It doesn't help that his brother pretty much looks like death warmed over. He had slept the long (long) hours of the drive away, hardly even stirring whenever Sam stopped for gas. It's beyond uncharacteristic by this point but Sam figures it must mean his body is really desperate for the rest. He's happy to give it to him. Apart from keeping him hydrated and giving him his regular dosing of Tylenol and cough medicine Sam leaves his brother alone. Once or twice Dean had roused somewhat into a sludgy state of awareness, but he was easily subdued back into sleep with a couple of words from Sam. For the most part, it's just Sam,the I-90, and Sam's musings about the angel's troubled words from the night previous and what they portend for he and Dean. They turn out to be exactly the kind of thoughts he needs to lose track of time to. The road conditions give him hardly any trouble and he surprises himself when he enters the city limits of Seattle.

Putting the Impala in park, Sam looks around carefully. The diner is little more than a random hole in the wall and the gravel parking lot is peppered sporadically with a few cars. There seems to be no one in the immediate vicinity. Perfect timing to make an angel materialize out of thin air.

"Dean. Dean, man. Wake up. How you doing?" Sam lightly jostles Dean's knee, then his elbow. Dean is slumped loosely in sleep, arms folded over his stomach. He jerks when Sam touches his arm and for a wild-eyed moment he looks around like he doesn't know which way is up. It only takes a second for the elder Winchester to get his bearings, though, and he turns to look at his brother. Then the coughing starts up. Shit, that sounds bad.

"Water?"

Dean nods, struggling to get control. Sam passes a half empty bottle of water to his brother, which he takes and downs in thirsty gulps, grimacing as he swallows.

"You sound rough."

"Yeah, well. I'm still handsome."

"Be that as it may, deluded one, how are you feeling?"

Dean clears his throat. "I'll keep. Is it my turn to drive?"

Sam is astounded. "Dean, we're here. We're in Seattle. You pretty much slept the whole day."

Dean looks like he doesn't believe him. "I did? The whole day? How could I have possibly slept all day, Sam?"

"Maybe because you're really sick? I'm not lying, here. We're in Seattle. But you woke up a couple of times along the way. You even talked to me. You don't remember?"

Dean rubs his face. He's obviously in a prickly mood. He always is in situations where he's annoyed with himself, like he is right now for sleeping so long. "No, Sam. I don't remember. It's fine. Just…next time turn me over occasionally so I don't get bed sores." He looks around and mutters to himself, "Seattle," like he can't quite get over it.

"Yes, Seattle. And you know what that means?" Sam is holding up Dean's cell phone, freshly charged and with a certain angel's number selected from the contacts list. He looks at his brother inquisitively, seriously. "Do you want to do the honors or shall I?"

Dean looks at the phone, then Sam. He makes a dismissive motion with his hand before crossing his arms again and shivering. "You do it, since you two apparently have so much to talk about." Looking out the window sullenly, there are a few moments of silence before Dean realizes Sam has yet to lift the phone to his ear. Looking back to his brother, he meets Sam's incredulous stare.

"What? Make the friggin' call."

Sam looks like he has a couple choice words he's chewing on, but he doesn't give them voice. Instead, he hits the send button, then lifts Dean's cell to his ear. "Fine," he says evenly. "But eventually you are going to have to talk to me about it."

"About _what_?" He may sound like he's rising to the challenge, but Sam isn't fooled. Dean really does want to know. He wants to know how much Sam knows about what happened with Famine.

"About _it_." Sam is sure he sees Dean flinch. It's barely discernible from his shivering, but it's still there. Dean opens his mouth, frowning, but Sam has his finger in his other ear, trying to hear the angel on the end of the line. "Cas? Just within city limits, at a diner called Harold's Meat and-"

"-Meat and Greet. I know." It never stops being eerie, how Castiel can do that. The brothers turn their heads and the angel is predictably sitting in the backseat. Even more predictable is the pensive expression he's wearing.

"Hello, Dean. Hello, Sam. It's good to see you," he pauses and flicks a glance at Dean. "Finally."

Dean grunts and closes his eyes briefly. He's rubbing his forehead again, and Sam passes him the Tylenol. "Right back at you, sunshine."

Castiel's eyes sweep over Dean briefly. "You look unwell," he says simply.

Dean glowers. "Yeah, I've been hearing that a lot lately." He begins to cough again and swings the Impala's passenger door open to spit a glob of mucus on the ground. He clears his throat and spits again. "Gross," he mutters and closes the door.

Sam frowns. "You hungry at all? You should probably try and eat something."

Dean's facial expression reads loud and clear that eating is the last thing he feels like doing. He almost tells Sam to go on ahead without him and he'll sleep in the car while he waits. Looking at his younger brother he knows there is no way that would happen. Sam looks anxious; he's staring at Dean like he expects him to disappear at any given moment. He knows Sam is worried. He knows that Sam…knows. About what Famine said to him, and how Dean believes the son of a bitch was right. And Dean hates that he knows Sam knows. And if that wasn't enough, now Sam is clearly also in the know that he is getting really friggin' sick. That he can deal with. He can handle his brother's watchful eye but no chance in hell is he falling behind and making Sam pick up his slack. And he's not going to give his brother the opportunity to think that he might have to. So no sitting and sleeping in the Impala for this guy. He's going to march in that diner and eat whatever gets thrown his way because he's not too sick to function, damnit. He swallows and nods, "Sure, Sammy. Let's go inside."

* * *

The waitress, an indifferent looking woman in her late forties, sets down the plates of food before returning to refill their coffee. Dean looks unimpressed at the sight of his bowl of chicken noodle soup. Which his brother ordered for him. He picks up his spoon and gives the soup a half-hearted stir. Sam gives the waitress a quick smile and dips his head. When she is gone Cas sits forward in his chair.

"There is something happening and I don't know what," the angel begins. "But I believe whatever it is, it's important and it concerns you two."

Dean exhales loudly. "Of course it does," he grumbles.

Sam shifts a little before responding, glancing around the nearly empty restaurant. Satisfied that no one is within earshot, he gives Castiel his full attention.

"What happened?" he asks. Beside him, Dean puts his spoon down to listen.

Castiel cuts straight to the chase.

"I was visited by Dean's image."

Dean is nonplussed. His mouth opens, shuts. Then opens again.

"My image?"

"Yes."

"Come again? Cas, what the hell are you talking about?" The talking seems to have caught up with Dean; he leans back and turns his head, coughing into his sleeve. Castiel waits patiently Dean to recover. Sam is torn between asking Dean how he's doing and risk his brother's wrath or keep the peace in favor of getting the angel to explain himself. Reluctantly, he chooses the latter but can't ignore the sinking sensation in his stomach as he watches his brother. He can't shake this feeling that this isn't going to be a simple salt and burn, after all.

They should never have come, not with Dean like this. They should have stayed at Bobby's.

Cas tries again. "After I left you and Sam at Bobby's I was made aware of strange behavior throughout Minnesota. I went to see for myself. Two nights ago, I was in Duluth performing an exorcism in an empty warehouse. When it was over, I stepped outside and Dean was standing there."

The Winchesters exchange uneasy glances but let Castiel continue.

"I attempted communication with your image, Dean, but you –it- would not or could not answer. But it was holding this in its hand," Cas looks down into the folds of his trench coat and withdraws a newspaper, which he passes across the table. Sam takes it and frowns, showing it to Dean. It's been turned open to another article about the recently missing Tate Burke.

Dean voices the question he and his brother both have in mind. "Well, I can tell you I wasn't at any abandoned warehouse in Duluth anytime recently. So…'image' like what? You mean a shape shifter?"

Castiel looks uncertain but shakes his head decisively. "No. At least, I don't think so. Unless shapeshifters have recently developed the capacity to completely vanish, which is what it did. It left that behind," the angel nods at the newspaper gravely.

There is a moment of silence before Dean pipes up again. "Okay, a Trickster, maybe? Other than you being by visited by a ghost that looks exactly like me, which incidentally makes it the sexiest ghost in history, I don't know what else to say."

Castiel thinks a moment before responding, choosing his words carefully. "At first I thought the same thing as well, but whatever it is, it's not a Trickster. It was…different somehow. It's hard to describe, but looking at it I felt cold. Unsettled. I don't know what it was or why it took your form, Dean, but I believe it is for ominous reasons. And it has something to do with that boy."

Dean rubs his face slowly. Crap, he's just so tired.

"So we look for the kid."

"Hold up for a second, here." Sam interjects. "How did it know where to find you, Cas? And how did it even know to go to you in the first place? It could be a trap."

"And it probably is," Dean agrees. "But what else is new? The school, this kid, the…me-thing. Something's definitely going on." He stops to cough again and he smothers it as best he can but it sounds painful. Dean starts to gasp between coughs. He presses a hand to his chest as though trying to slow the force of the spasms down.

Sam is practically beside himself. He doesn't want to draw attention to his brother's struggles but he also can't take his hand off Dean's back for fear of him falling right out of his seat. The younger Winchester is alarmed at how warm Dean feels through his clothes. The effort of coughing has left him flushed and sweating.

"Eat your soup, and try not to puke from coughing."

Dean mutters something under his breath, wipes his forehead.

Sam won't have any of it. "Dean, I'm not kidding. Like you said, something's going on. And if you expect to stay on your feet though this hunt you're going to need to eat and keep it down. I'm not convinced you shouldn't see a doctor for some antibiotics."

Dean shoots the suggestion down immediately. "We're on our last credit card, Sam, and we can barely afford to keep staying in hotels like we are. We can't take the kind of hit a prescription would cost, so forget it." He takes as deep a breath as he can but it's a weak attempt at best. His chest is starting to get sore from all the coughing. "Tomorrow morning, you and I go to that school and do some checking around."

He picks up his spoon and starts to eat.


	5. Stranger Than Fiction

I know I'm repeating myself, but thanks so much for reading! All the reviews, alerts, and favorites mean so much to me. Everyone has just been really wonderful on here.

Disclaimer: Still not mine. It's kind of sad.

* * *

After the diner the brothers part ways with Castiel and check into a hotel. The night is long for both brothers. Dean tries to muffle his coughing and gasping as best he can, but it's not like Sam can sleep while knowing what's going on, how bad he sounds. Finally, Sam rolls over and turns on the lamp, looking across to Dean's bed.

"Dean, that sounds awful. Really awful."

Dean throws him a glare and pushes himself up to lean against the headboard. Takes a drink of water from the glass Sam had thoughtfully provided earlier.

"I think it sounds awesome. Go back to sleep."

"What are you going to do?"

" 'M gonna compose a speech, Sam. What do you think? I'm going to sleep." To prove his point, he folds his arms across his midsection and closes his eyes, but remains sitting up.

_It must be because it's easier to breathe sitting up. _And that's how it seems: his breathing sounds a little less labored in this position, like the crap in his lungs settles slightly better. That can't be a good thing.

The cough expectorant hasn't been doing much to help Dean. The more gunk he manages to cough up and spit out, the more there still seems to be in his chest. Sam's diagnosis remains exactly the same, bronchitis or something. The only thing he's surer of is how fast he's going to drag his brother to a clinic as soon as this hunt is finished, no matter what he says.

The next morning finds them tired but sharply dressed. Sam steps out of their motel bathroom, suited up and freshly shaved.

"All I'm saying is if you would rather stay here and rest while I go do this-"

"Sam, you're not benching me on this one," the older Winchester cuts him off with finality before he finishes. His voice is hoarse from all the coughing and he's popping cough lozenges like they're going out of style. "It'll be easy. We're just going to the school and then to Tate Burke's house to talk to his parents." He fumbles with his tie, swears at it under his breath, and tries again.

Sam reaches over with a sigh and quickly fixes it for his brother.

"If by 'easy', you mean a hunt with nothing to go on besides strange behavior from a group of kids, a missing sixteen year old boy, and some…_thing_ wearing your face, then yeah, totally easy. I agree."

"Well, I don't know if it's a shape shifter or a ghost. Or maybe it's a shape shifting ghost. Whatever it is, it obviously has great taste." He chuckles to himself and coughs gingerly into his fist, trying not to set off another round of protracted hacking. "And as soon as I find it, I'm permanently wiping the perfect smile off that disarmingly handsome face. Damn, it's warm in here."

"It's not warm in here; it's you," Sam corrects his brother. "And you might want to take this a little more seriously. The last time you were impersonated you ended up on America's Most Wanted." Sam sees Dean smiling. "And don't even make the joke I know you're thinking about making. Way too predictable."

In truth, Sam is glad that Dean's making the effort at humor. It may be just for show, but he finds a small amount of comfort in it. If he still has the energy to put on the game face, then maybe he's strong enough to stay on his feet for this thing. He catches himself almost smiling. When he looks up, he sees that Dean has caught him in the near act, too. The older Winchester grins; he looks relaxed. Sam is suddenly struck with the thought that he can't remember the last time he felt like this. This – _good._ It's a genuine moment the two of them are sharing, and they enjoy it. That is, until Dean brings it up short by going into another coughing fit.

Sam watches in alarm as his brother's face goes red from the strain. "God, Dean, I think you should sit down." He steers him to the closest bed and Dean sits without resistance. It takes a long minute before he can take more than two breaths without losing control again. Suddenly, he jumps up and strides into the bathroom, where he spits a large wad of mucus into the toilet.

"Aw, that's just wrong," is all he says when he comes back out, wiping the tears out of his eyes and taking a swig of coffee.

"And definitely unhealthy," Sam agrees, looking Dean up and down. "Are you sure you don't want me to call Cas? Get him to come instead, you go to some clinic."

Dean shoots his brother a look like he just asked who John Bonham was.

"Dude, we've been over this already. The answer is no," he lifts up a finger to silence Sam before he has the chance to speak up, which he clearly wants to. "Let me finish. I was going to say the answer is no, but when this is all over I'll let you drag me to whatever doctor you want and I'll go peacefully."

Sam's eyebrow shoots up. "So you admit you're sick?"

"Did I ever deny that I was?"

Sam decides he's drawing the line. He's not sure why exactly, but this is the final straw. This can't go on any further; it's time to bring everything out into the open, whether Dean likes it or not. "Then what's with the urgency, Dean? Why did you want us to race out here, pretending like everything's fine when it clearly isn't?"

Dean's face suddenly turns into stone, his eyes flinty. "Don't start, Sam," he says, and moves to grab his wallet off the small table in the corner of the motel room.

"I think I _am_ starting. I want to know what's going on with you." Stubbornness is a classic Winchester quality, of which Sam has an overabundance. Dean knows this. He also knows that he's too tired for a verbal sparring match. He sighs and spreads his hands. When he speaks, his voice is scratchy and loud.

"What do you want me to say, Sam? Huh?"

Sam raises his voice in exasperation. "The truth is a good place to start, Dean. What's the big deal with this hunt, and why are you working so hard to keep Cas at a distance? Last night you practically shooed him away after the diner." Sam switches tactics; if he wants the truth from his brother he should set the precedent. "But mostly, I want you to admit that you're not okay, so we can fix this. I heard what Famine said to you, Dean, and it was all crap. He was wrong. About everything."

Dean takes in what Sam has to say. When he's done, the older Winchester nods once and looks at the door that leads out of this room and away from this conversation. The door he won't be able to walk through until he throws down like his brother wants him to. Okay, then. It was going to have to happen sooner or later. He looks Sam straight in the eye.

"Sam, the first time Bobby and I put you through detox we weren't sure if you were going to live. And Bobby told me that he thought maybe we were doing the wrong thing and cold turkey wasn't the way to go. That we were killing you. I told him that I would rather have you die a human than a monster."

Sam glances sharply at Dean, but doesn't interrupt. Shame blooms hotly in his cheeks, face burning from embarrassment.

"That last time you were drying out in Bobby's panic room it was because of me. I put you in there. I left you in that motel room for those demons to come find you, no one watching your back. What happened…what you did…It's my fault."

"Dean, I did it so I could be strong enough to save you-"

"I'm the one who's supposed to be saving you, damnit!" Dean's voice is a hoarse shout and he breaks into coughing again, the sound wet and tearing. This time, when Dean sinks down onto the bed to sit Sam can see that his legs are wobbly. For a moment he almost regrets forcing Dean to open up and wishes that he would crack another joke. Wishing, again. What a bad habit.

Dean continues unprompted. "So whatever you want to say about Famine's little pep talk with me, just can it. It's not important and there's zero room for it in the big picture. The demons got the drop on us, Sam. On _me._ And I let them. And that's why we're on this hunt, this _demon-free _hunt," the elder Winchester wipes at his forehead again, pinching the bridge of his nose before resuming. "Because it seemed like as good an opportunity as any to get the hell out of dodge and regroup. And give you…more time. And that meant getting us away from a certain angel-who shall remain nameless-so he couldn't swoop in on us. Or else you would have been raring to take off to Minnesota and jump back in the fire."

It's a bitter pill but Sam understands now. He's taken completely aback.

"You took this hunt…to keep me away from the demons?"

Dean looks beaten by the admission. "Yeah, Sam. I did. I guess I wasn't sure how you would react if you were around demon blood so soon again after. I just wanted to make sure Famine didn't still have your number and you wouldn't be…tempted. Cas didn't just call me on the drive here; he called me about going to Minnesota the day I pulled you out the safe room, but I never told you or Bobby. He's been dogging me ever since."

"You should have told me."

"Dude, I think you're the last person who should be giving me the honesty lecture. I think I've earned a lifetime exemption from that one from you."

Dean regrets it the second it's out of his mouth. He watches his brother's face harden, but not before the hurt is clear in his expression.

_Damn it. Great deflection, Winchester._

When Sam speaks again, his voice is soft.

"You're right. I'll be in the car - whenever you're ready."

With that, Sam is out the door.

* * *

The drive to Robert Fulton High School only takes about thirty minutes, the silence punctuated by Dean's coughing.

He feels bad about what he said to Sam. He glances over at his brother in the passenger seat. His little brother's jaw is clenched so hard he can almost hear his teeth cracking.

"Look, I'm sorry about what I said back there. I was a dick," Dean tries lamely. He would say more, but even those few words have left him feeling short of breath. If he doesn't stop talking and try to slow his breathing he'll end up coughing, and he's beyond fed up with that.

"I don't want to talk about it, Dean. Let's just get to work."

Okay, he can do that. That's what he wanted, after all. To work. To not have to worry about the Apocalypse every friggin' moment. To prove to himself that he can actually _go_ more than five seconds without thinking about it, period. Whatever this hunt shapes up to be, it's got to be better than what he and Sam have dealt with recently.

God, he hopes so.

While pulling up to the school Dean smothers another wracking set of coughs into the sleeve of his suit jacket. When he's done, his face drains from red to white in a matter of seconds, leaving him pale as a ghost.

"You up for this?" Sam asks, but isn't surprised when Dean nods.

"You bet. So, who do you want to be today?" The elder Winchester reaches over and opens the glove box, pulls out a handful of badges, IDs, and other fake documentation. He rifles through them for a moment before he pulling one out for himself and one for Sam, tossing it in his lap with a smirk while he flashes his own for his younger brother to see.

Sam squints at Dean's ID. "Detectives Crockett and –" he looks at his own. Rolls his eyes. "And Wiggum? You're joking, right?"

Dean's grin gets wider. "Let's go, Clancy."

"Whatever you say, Don Johnson."

* * *

The school secretary is a meek, mousy little thing, but obviously quite sweet. She sees Sam and Dean and smiles tremulously, half-rising and then sitting down again quickly, as though she's lost the nerve to stand. "Are you the detectives that called just a few minutes ago?" She's young, and cute in a wallflower kind of way, so Sam expects Dean to take the lead on this one. He waits for his brother to say something a moment before realizing that Dean is actually waiting on _him_ to do it, purse-lipped and serious as he manages to stifle a cough.

The younger Winchester obliges, stepping smoothly into his part. "Yes, ma'am, we are. We're very appreciative that we were able to come in on such short notice." As Sam speaks, he and Dean give her the simultaneous credential flash. "Detective Crockett and I won't need to take up too much of your time here."

The secretary's voice is so timid it barely registers above a murmur. "Oh, it's no trouble," she says. "It's just so awful, that boy disappearing...His poor parents. Principal Wheeler is expecting you, Detective…" her voice fades hesitantly, waiting for Sam to fill in the blank.

He can almost see the mirth threatening to explode out of Dean. To his credit, the older Winchester manages to keep the smirk from showing on his face. It's all Sam can do to keep himself from elbowing his brother sharply in the ribs.

"Please, call me Clancy." He wonders if the smile on his face is more of a grimace. He reminds himself to destroy this particular badge, or else come up with something for Dean in retaliation. Probably both.

* * *

As far as principals go, Wheeler seems standard issue. His office is bland in an authoritative way. There is a calendar and a clock on the wall, some framed photos of his wife and kids on his desk, but that's it for aesthetics. Not a clinical atmosphere, just straightforward. Looking at the fifty-something man, it's clear that recent events have certainly taken their toll on his sleep. His eyes are heavy and dark circled but he shakes Sam and Dean's hand like he means it.

"Good morning, Detectives," he greets them. "Please," he motions for them to sit while he pulls up his own chair behind his desk.

"I certainly hope you don't take this the wrong way, but I'm not sure what further help I can be. I've already given a statement; I don't have terribly much to tell, I'm afraid."

Dean leans forward, his expression serious and attentive. "It may seem like that, but my partner and I, we've just been assigned to the case and if you wouldn't mind, we really do prefer to start fresh in all aspects of the investigation."

Principal Wheeler absently smoothes his tie. He nods and smiles wanly. "Of course, I would be happy to tell you anything you would like to know."

Sam smiles gently, unobtrusively. His "confide in me, I'm all ears" expression. "That would be very helpful," he says and sits forward in his chair. "Would you mind telling us about Tate Burke? Starting with his expulsion."

Wheeler nods, smiles sadly again.

"If I had to pick from the entire school which student would be most likely to do what he did, Tate would never once have crossed my mind. He was an exceptional student. An A- average, great basketball player. He was just one of those kids that could do everything. He comes from a lovely family. Everyone was so fond of Tate, faculty and classmates alike," he stops, reflecting. "Tara Conner is so upset…His girlfriend."

Beside him, Sam is aware of Dean stirring and lifting the back of his hand to his pursed mouth, stifling a cough. He manages to keep it together and the elder Winchester goes still again.

Principal Wheeler closes his eyes briefly, rubs his temple. "Then, last week he attacked a faculty member. Our basketball coach, John Patterson. It happened in the locker room; students say he just…went wild. He started shouting that he was going to kill John. It took four students to pull Tate off; John needed half a dozen stitches above his eye. Understandably, he's quite shaken up over the incident." Wheeler stops for a second. When he continues, his voice is filled with regret. "His parents were completely devastated to hear about the event, not to mention speechless. It was incredibly difficult to expel someone who had always shown so much promise. I can't stop asking myself if it had something to do with his running away that same night, if he did indeed run away. It was just so unlike him to attack John like he did. It's like he was-"

"Possessed?" Sam asks calmly, finishing Wheeler's sentence.

Wheeler nods. "Exactly."

Dean shifts a little, coughs as surreptitiously as he can. When he's done, he absently passes the back of his hand across his forehead. "It sounds like the school has had quite the run of incidents this past month."

Wheeler's face is dismal. "That is one way of putting it, yes. These last few weeks have been difficult, starting with our janitor, Miles Stanley."

"The hit and run. Terrible." Sam intones gravely. The sympathy encourages Wheeler to continue with the subject.

"No offense, but I wish they would hurry up and catch the person responsible. Miles was a good man. He was with us for almost seventeen years, would never harm a fly. It's simply tragic."

"Yes, it is tragic," Sam agrees. He switches gears, noticing that Dean isn't doing so well. His older brother keeps clearing his throat in lieu of coughing, and he's starting to break into a sweat. He needs to hurry this along.

"The new janitor, ah-" he pretends like he is struggling to recall the name as though it were on the tip of his tongue. A pause hangs in the air before the principal replies.

"Al Larson," Wheeler helpfully supplies.

"Yes, thank you. Mr. Larson, he made a statement to the papers about…strange occurrences happening at night in the school?"

Wheeler chuckles dryly. "You mean the break-and-waxer? Yes, well, that particular topic is up for debate. I'm sure you gentlemen can see for yourselves that the floors in the hallways don't look like they have been polished anytime at all recently. Al's a decent person, but he's confused. He has good days and not so good days. But it's only been a month since he started working at the school, and I'm sure once he's fully adjusted here things will go much better for him soon."

"Has Mr. Larson ever said anything else unusual to yourself or the faculty? Has he ever complained of seeing or feeling anything strange? Like a room suddenly going cold, for example?"

Wheeler thinks for a moment, then frowns. He seems unsure of where this line of questioning is going to go. "No, nothing like that. Not to my knowledge."

Sam moves in a different tack.

"Can you tell me about the other student disturbances that you've experienced recently?"

Wheeler is now definitely confused. "You mean the suspensions? Not to sound insolent, Detective, but I'm not sure what this has to do with Tate. Those kids didn't even know him."

Sam adopts an understanding, patient look. "I'm sure this may sound odd to you, Mr. Wheeler, but like my partner said, we like to look into all aspects of an investigation. We're just trying to lay down some groundwork. I'm sure there is probably no pertinence but we would appreciate your humoring us, all the same."

Wheeler looks slightly dubious, but he obliges Sam. Yes, there had been a string of suspensions recently. No, the kids involved weren't troubled. In fact, they were normally upstanding students. They didn't even hang out in similar circles; they were in different grades. Each incident involved either fighting or destroying school property. One girl had even set off a Roman candle in the women's faculty bathroom (meriting a barely contained chuckle from Dean). As Wheeler talks, Sam starts to feel more and more like he and Dean won't be getting anything particularly useful from him. The death of the Miles Stanley, the behavior from the students who were suspended, Tate's disappearance – there wasn't any apparent connection from what he could see. Perhaps they were digging for information in the wrong hole.

Sam barely finishes the thought before Dean breaks into a chest-crushing round of wet sounding coughs, unable to stop them from breaking free.

Sam regards him, his concern barely concealed. Dean isn't getting any better. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Wheeler looks sympathetic. "That sounds terrible. You must be a dedicated man, working even when you're coughing like that."

Sam couldn't agree more. _You don't know the half of it._

"Why don't you have our secretary Alice show you to the water fountain? A drink might help with that."

Dean glances up sharply at Wheeler's suggestion then looks at Sam for a brief second. Long enough for the younger Winchester to know what his brother is trying to tell him. "You go on with Alice, I'll meet you outside," Sam says. Dean nods once, still coughing. He gets out of his chair and leaves.

Sam counts to ten in his head before he gets out of his chair. He extends his hand to Wheeler. "We appreciate your time, sir. We'll be in touch if there is anything more we need."

Wheeler takes his hand and pumps it. "Of course, Detective. Please don't hesitate to come back." A pause. "Do you think you'll find Tate? Are you getting close?"

Sam gives his best reassuring smile.

"Closer every day," he tells him. "Don't worry about seeing me out. I'm sure I'll find my way."

The secretary's area is still empty when Sam enters, Alice apparently taking Dean to that promised water fountain. _Good._

Sam's always been a good snoop; it only takes a couple minutes before he's picked the lock on the filing cabinet and finds what he's after. And not a moment too soon, because as he leaves he brushes by Alice, the secretary. She gives him a direct smile, as though she's suddenly forgotten that she's shy.

"That's quite the cough your partner has," she says. "Be careful you don't catch it, yourself."

Sam nods. "Duly noted. Thanks for helping him out."

"No problem. Take care, Detective. Good luck."

Sam doesn't feel her eyes on his back as he leaves.

* * *

Dean meets Sam in the hallway, and Sam feels the knot in his stomach tighten upon the sight of his brother. Dean looked terrible yesterday. Today, his appearance is abysmal. His breathing is wheezy and hoarse, and he's pale except for an unhealthy flush in his cheeks. It's clear that it's taking a monumental effort to stay standing. Sam puts a hand on his brother's shoulder and he can feel the unnatural heat coming off him. _He needs to be in bed. He's not up for this._ But there's still one more stop to make today and Dean won't put it off. So Sam looks at his brother searchingly. "Dean, you good? For just a little longer?"

There is no hesitation on Dean's part. "Yeah, of course. You get the kid's address?"

Sam gives his older brother's should a quick squeeze before dropping his hand. "You bet. I just need to check something out. I'll meet you at the car, okay?"

Dean is indignant. "What do you mean, you'll meet me at the car? Am I on a time out, Sam?" He turns his head and coughs painfully into his arm, the sound bouncing down the empty hallway. Sam winces at the noise.

"I mean I have to check something out. _Quietly_. So. I'll meet you at the car. Okay?" He doesn't mean to come off as condescending but he doesn't exactly have time to waste. And the sooner Dean gets off his feet, the better.

"Whatever." Dean grumbles when he can talk but turns and leaves Sam to it, anyway. Sam looks on for a moment while he leaves, but only for that one moment. He's got to be quick: this quiet in the halls can't last for long. He puts his hand to the small of his back, feels for the bolt cutters he's got tucked away. In the back of his mind he's laughing to himself over the bizarreness of the fact that he had foreseen the need for them. Hunting the supernatural, killing the things that go bump in the night, fighting Lucifer, the Apocalypse. Breaking into high school lockers.

All in stride, after all.

* * *

Dean doesn't mean to doze in the Impala. He doesn't feel himself close his eyes and drift off. When he's out, he doesn't even feel like he's asleep. It doesn't seem like he's sitting in his car, either. It's just him, nothing else, and even then there is a disconnect within him and his own body bears no relevance to him. This isn't his head, achy and buzzing on top of his non-shoulders. These aren't his lungs, working like they are under a thousand pounds of pressure. He can't decide from one moment to the next if he's way too hot or if he's chilled to the core. His muscles are a quivering mass of pulp, his bones weak and painful. No resemblance to Dean Winchester at all. Nothing is right here.

_When is it ever right, Dean?_

_ Dean?_

"Dean!"

Dean jerks awake, but that can't be right, either. When did he fall asleep? What just happened? He looks to Sam for an explanation, but his brother has no answers forthcoming. Instead, Sam tightens his grip on Dean's arm, his face intense and urgent.

"Dean? You with me now? I've been calling and calling your name and you wouldn't wake up. You okay?"

Dean pulls his arm out Sam's grasp; even the slight pressure his brother is exerting on him is painful. The elder Winchester looks around and finds himself surprised on more than one count. He barely remembers being in the Impala, but he is unsure of how he fell asleep and for how long. All he sees is a parking lot around him and he can't quite seem to pull the recollection of where he had just come from out of the fog in his mind. He feels strange, fuzzy. "This isn't the motel," he mumbles, mostly to himself. Apparently this isn't the right thing to say, because his brother's hand moves to cup the side of his neck to get him to turn his face towards him. Dean blinks and squints despite the overcast weather, his headache is that bad. Sam stares long and hard at Dean for a second.

"No, Dean. We're outside the school, remember? I told you to wait for me in the car, and you must have fallen asleep. God, you're really warm. I think I should take you back to the motel. "

Oh, yeah. That's right; the school. Dean takes as deep a breath as he can. He needs to pull it together, right now.

"I'll be fine, Sam. Just a little out of it. I fell asleep, like you said." He rubs his eyes and sits up straighter. "So what did you have to do in there, anyway?"

Sam looks his brother up and down before answering. "Wheeler gave me the names of the students who were suspended, so I checked their files as well as Tate's. Turns out they also keep the locker number of each student on record." Sam holds up the bolt cutters. "So I did a locker check."

"You narc," Dean chuckles. Gives his head an amused shake. "And? Any illicit substances? Porno mags?"

"I'd say definitely illicit." Sam digs in his pocket, revealing two small cloth bags with drawstring ends. "I only had time to check two lockers before I heard someone coming, but I'm willing to bet we would find these in all of the lockers of those kids who've been acting strangely. They were tucked away in the corner, hidden. One of them came from Tate's locker."

The younger Winchester opens the bags and upends them into his palm. Two small coins fall out. They are roughly the size of dimes, with unfamiliar markings. Dean takes one and inspects it, frowning. "These symbols look familiar to you?"

Sam squints at the one he's holding. "No."

"Me neither." Dean hands it back to Sam, who puts it back in its pouch. "So whatever these are, you think they mean that Tate and those other kids were marked by someone? Because if so, then I think it's safe to say that whatever we're dealing with, it's flesh and blood and not some sort of spirit." Even as he's speaking, Dean feels his lungs running short on air. By the time he's done, he's out of breath and coughing again.

Sam is silent a moment before turning to his brother. "Tate was the last kid to go bad. It seems like convenient timing for him to be missing as of that night."

"You think he's behind this?"

Sam shrugs. "I'm not sure, but it wouldn't hurt to assume he's lurking around here somewhere while whatever this is plays out."

"But then why would he leave one of those in his own locker?" Dean asks, shivering.

"Good point. What are you thinking?"

The elder Winchester puts the key in the Impala's ignition, turns it. The car roars to life. "I think we should start with going to Tate's house as planned, then do some looking into that Miles Stanley. His death was the first incident – then suddenly kids are wigging out. Maybe there's a connection."

"And don't forget there's something out there with your face on it," Sam reminds his brother. "We should be looking for it, see what it is, what it wants."

Dean sighs. This is turning into one hell of a grocery list. "Hey, if you have any suggestions on how to tackle that one, I'm all ears," Dean says. "But until then, let's focus on what's in front of us." He reaches up and puts the Impala in gear. "What's the kid's address?"

* * *

Sam is anxious to get back to the motel. Ever since they left the high school Dean's been withering at a fast rate. When Sam woke him in the Impala, his brother was clearly disoriented. Now, as they pull up to the Burke house, Sam is tempted to ask Dean if he wants to wait for him in the car. He doesn't, though, because he already knows the answer. As they walk up the porch and ring the doorbell, Sam resolves to get this done as fast as possible.

It turns out to be a fairly quick operation. Tate's parents let them in immediately following the presentation of their badges, taking them to the living room. Sam asks the questions in a gentle voice while Dean smothers his coughing as best he can. The Burkes are obviously exhausted with worry and they appear to be well seasoned by police questioning. They answer everything that Sam asks as though the process is old-hat to them by this point. There isn't much the brothers glean from the interview besides what they already know. Tate is a good son, never combative. He is an excellent student. He loves sports. He had always said such glowing things about his coach, John Patterson. They simply couldn't understand why he would have done such a thing unprovoked.

"I just can't believe he would run away," Mrs. Burke sobs while her husband puts his arm around her. "But I can't believe anyone would want to harm him, either. It's just too awful." Her voice wavers and breaks off. Mr. Burke murmurs into her ear softly.

Sam glances around the living room, giving them time. Beside him, Dean is rubbing the back of his neck and looking away, also stalling. The younger Winchester's eyes fall on a framed photo. It's a picture of the Burke family, taken a while ago from the looks of it. Tate looks about six or so in the picture, standing beside a girl about six or seven years older. Sam motions to it. "Is that his sister?"

Mr. Burke glances over, following Sam's line of sight. He nods. "Yes, that's Jen. She moved out about a year ago. She was here not that long ago, you just missed her. Would you like us to give her a call and get her to come back?"

Sam shakes his head gently. "No, Mr. Burke. That won't be necessary, but thank you. If you don't mind, there's just one last thing. Would it be possible for us to take a look at Tate's room?"

Mrs. Burke regains enough composure to look up at the brothers. She blinks to clear her eyes of tears and smiles. "Of course, Detective. Up the stairs and down the hall," she sniffs and wipes her eyes one more time. "We've left it as it was."

* * *

Tate's bedroom is spectacularly just like the bedroom of any other sixteen year old boy. There are clothes strewn on the floor, posters on the wall, porn under the bed. Sam and Dean get to work quickly and quietly. They check under the mattress, in the drawers of his dresser, then pull the drawers out to check under them. They search the closet, his clothes. Dean points to a photo of a young girl with dark hair and blue eyes stuck to his mirror. "This must be his girlfriend," he observes. "Tara, Wheeler said? Cute for jailbait." Dean turns from the photo and keeps searching. He bends down to riffle through Tate's gym bag at his feet. Finding nothing, he starts to straighten up but is taken by a sudden coughing fit. Sam continues searching, albeit halfheartedly. He's feeling pretty confident that there's nothing to implicate Tate. Whoever or whatever is behind this, it's not the kid, which means he's a victim. Behind him, he hears Dean start to gasp between coughs as though he's suffocating. He turns around in time to see Dean start to sag, his knees slowly buckling.

"Whoa, Dean. Take it easy." Sam is there in an instant. Guiding his brother to sit on the floor, gently pushing his head down to rest on his bent knees. "Just slow it down for a second. Easy breaths."

There's nothing easy about his breathing, though. Sam has his hand on his brother's back and he can feel him struggling for air. His chest is making rasping, bubbling noises with every wheezing inhale. When Dean finally lifts his head, his face is shiny with sweat and he's shivering violently, despite the sickly heat that prickles off him. Slowly but surely, he gets himself under control again.

Sam kneels down, searches his brother's face for signs of distress. "You're really sick, Dean. I think we should go; we're not finding anything here."

Dean takes a shaky breath and waits for a second as though he's expecting to burst into coughing again. "You're right," he finally agrees. "This kid is as regular as bran."

"So what next?"

Dean wipes his face with a trembling hand, speaks in a clipped voice, trying not to run out of precious oxygen. "Like you said, we should go. Head back to the motel. See what we can dig up about Miles Stanley, where he lived, where he's buried. Help me up, Sam."

Sam is only too happy to oblige.

* * *

When the brothers arrive back at their motel room, Dean sinks wearily down into a chair. He rubs his forehead for a moment, reaches for the Tylenol. Sam passes him a bottle of water. "I'll head out and grab us some lunch in a minute," he says.

Dean shrugs. "Just grab something for yourself. I'm not into eating." He pops three pills into his mouth and takes a gulp of water.

Sam gives him the eye from where he's shrugging out of his suit and tie. "You don't have to be into it. All you have to do is chew and swallow." He meets his older brother's glare with equal force. "I'm serious, Dean. There's no arguing me on this. I'll bring you back something light."

"Something light? I'm not ninety, you know." Dean loosens his tie, pulls out his cell. "Think we should call in for reinforcements? Show Cas what you found and see if he knows anything? Might save us some research." He waggles his phone at Sam.

The younger Winchester raises an eyebrow, pulls on a hoodie and jeans. "So does this mean you're done avoiding him, if you're calling him now?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "You mean this conversation isn't over yet? I already told you why I was avoiding him, Sam. So stop beating the horse, already." He dials Castiel's number pointedly. Predictably, the angel answers right away.

"Dean?"

Dean clears his throat before speaking, trying to get some punch in his rapidly diminishing voice. "Hey, Cas. Can you come over? We found something we need you to take a look at."

Cas is standing beside Dean the second the address leaves the elder Winchester's lips. Dean is startled by the angel's sudden proximity and almost drops the phone. "God, Cas," he complains. "Sometimes I think you try to be creepy."

The angel looks down at him. "Hello, Dean," he simply says. "What did you find?"

Sam hands the pouches over. "One was in Tate's locker."

Castiel examines them. "Tokens," he breathes, "but I am unfamiliar with the sigil."

"Join the club," Dean grumbles, then coughs. The spasms only get worse, and soon he is doubled up in the chair, hacking and gasping desperately.

"Hey, ease up there, Dean. Slow it down," Sam bends down and rubs between his brother's shoulder blades, darting a look at Cas. Dean shoots up out of his chair and bolts for the bathroom, where he promptly gags and throws up the water and Tylenol he had taken earlier, the pills not even completely dissolved yet. He remains hunched over the sink for a moment, sucking in as much air as he can between bouts.

Cas remains rooted to the spot he's standing on. The sound of Dean's coughing triggers something within him, or perhaps more accurately, within Jimmy. A memory swims up to the surface, unbidden. It's Jimmy's daughter, Claire, and when she was five she was terribly ill, coughing and gasping endlessly. Then one terrifying night there was a trip to the emergency room. It's a blur: Claire's face, the look of fear, her desperate struggles to breathe. Cas can feel the remembered panic of his vessel as doctors wheeled her away. The memory is hazy at best; Jimmy's consciousness is deeply submerged. But now Castiel has a name for his anxiety about Dean.

Dean comes out of the bathroom on shaky legs. "It's the coughing," is all the explanation he offers, sitting back down.

"Dean," Cas speaks up, concerned, "I think you may be getting pneumonia."

"That makes two of us," Sam agrees. He sees the look his older brother shoots him and spreads his hands. "I'm sorry, Dean, but I think this may be out of our league. I don't think this is something you can fight off naturally on your own. It's time to go to a doctor before you get too bad. If it's the kind of pneumonia you can take antibiotics for, you should be. Think about your health for once."

"Damn it, Sam," Dean growls. Sam lifts his eyebrows and crosses his arms, silently daring his brother to say more. Cas just stares at Dean as though comprehending a vast mystery.

Dean glares up at both men standing over him, waiting for his rebuttal. He almost does say something in retaliation, but snaps his mouth shut. _Aw, screw it._ He's too tired to argue anymore.

"Fine, but we wait and see how I feel tomorrow. Tonight, we have a dead guy's place to break into."

* * *

A/N: Please review, if you feel so inclined.


	6. The Lost Art of Keeping a Secret

Hi, all! So glad you are still reading. Thanks very much for that.

Disclaimer: Sad, but true.

* * *

Sam knows how to win an argument.

To be fair, he does have a distinct advantage, seeing as how Dean is sick and in no mood to put up much of a fight. All the younger Winchester has to do is bring up the fact that they only have one laptop between them to do any research with, and it's not like Sam needs an audience while he Googles. Dean realizes Sam has a valid point and allows his brother to steer him towards the bed. Still, despite how obviously crappy his brother is feeling, Sam can't help but be surprised by how quickly the elder Winchester drops off into an uneasy slumber. He powers the laptop up and tries not to dwell too long on it. It's not easy.

There's also an awkward silence between him and Cas, who sits at the small table across from Sam. The angel is so quiet the younger Winchester could almost forget he's even there. That is, if it wasn't for the staring. Every time Sam looks up over the top of the laptop screen he is being unobtrusively studied. It's equally unnerving and annoying. Finally, Sam can't take it anymore.

"Cas, can I get you a crossword or something?" But the angel is impervious. He leans forward, clasps his hands loosely on the table.

"How are you feeling, Sam?" Direct and guilelessly blunt.

Sam is surprised. He's already uncomfortable in the angel's company without Dean as a buffer, so he feels unprepared to handle any personal questions. "What do you mean?"

He knows what Cas means.

The angel continues to intently regard the younger Winchester. "I mean," he says, "you consumed a large…quantity. It must have been difficult for you to work it out of your system. Are you feeling okay?"

Sam gropes for a response, but he finds himself dumbfounded by the question. Castiel is not making any insinuations, not apportioning any blame; he's showing genuine concern. And he feels completely unworthy of it. The hunter feels heat pinching his eyes and blinks rapidly to clear his vision.

"Yeah," he says, managing an unsteady smile. "Yeah, I'm good." He doesn't know what else he could possibly say so he turns his attention back to the laptop.

Tries not to look up again.

* * *

Not only does Sam know how to win an argument, he also knows how to bluff.

_Yeah, drinking demon blood and lying to your brother's face about it will do that to you._

Self-deprecation aside, it really wasn't that hard to find out Miles Stanley's last address and where he's buried. A couple well-placed phone calls and a convincing alias is all it takes. Cas, in the meantime, makes himself useful by transporting himself out to get food for the brothers. He reappears again without warning, takeout bags in hand. Sam knows to expect it but still can't stop himself from being startled. Damn, he'll never get completely used to Castiel's disappearing and reappearing acts.

"Okay," he says, and rises to stretch his stiff back. "I guess we're good to go."

"If you say so," Castiel remarks, eyes flicking to Dean, who lies prostrate on the bed. The elder Winchester is sleeping shallowly, his head moving restlessly on the pillow. "He's not doing very well, Sam," the angel observes.

Sam can only agree.

"I know." What else can he say? He surprises himself two seconds later by opening his mouth again. "It's my fault." It's actually a relief when Sam says the words. "This whole thing is my fault."

"Sam, you had nothing to do with it," Cas rebukes him gently. "You can't blame yourself for events out of your control."

"I'm not talking about the hunt, Cas." Sam says quietly. He scratches above his eyebrow, a gesture of mute frustration.

Castiel pauses, doesn't say anything for a few moments. When he does, he sounds tired. It saddens Sam to think of it, how constrained the angel must feel within his earthly vessel. When Sam has had a lot of blood to drink he feels close to godliness himself. And he knows he's the furthest thing from it. It lends a certain respect to Sam's opinion of Castiel. It would seem that everyone must struggle under some burden these days, including divine beings.

"I'm not talking about the hunt, either," the angel tells the younger Winchester. If there is something Cas would like to add he doesn't get the chance. Dean stirs and mutters his brother's name groggily,

Sam moves to the side of the bed and puts a tentative hand out to rest on Dean's shoulder. The light touch is all that is needed to rouse the hunter out of his sleep. "Hey," Sam keeps his voice down. "You waking up, Dean? Can you sit up? I'm going to give you some more Tylenol and cough medicine, but you have to eat something first." The younger Winchester can't help but notice that Dean still feels overly warm. He wishes they had a thermometer.

"Sam?" Dean manages to push himself halfway up against the headboard. He blinks to clear his vision, then grimaces when Sam turns on the lamp.

"Yeah," Sam tells his brother. "It's me. How you doing?"

Dean doesn't respond. Instead, he looks up at Castiel, confused.

"Cas?" he mumbles, dazed. "When did you get here?"

Sam looks at the angel, then back at his brother. "Cas has been here for a while now, Dean. Don't you remember? You called him after we got back."

Dean looks like he's struggling to remember. Sam bites his lip. Even the normally stoic Castiel's concern is apparent. After a few silent moments, Dean finally finds his voice.

"Yeah, sorry. Just waking up." He takes an experimental breath, coughing when he inhales too deeply. "You find out where we need to be going next?" Like the diligent soldier, ready for action. Sam's hand doesn't leave Dean's shoulder.

"Yeah, Dean, I got an address. But I think maybe you should stay here. You should sleep some more."

Dean looks like he'd like to argue Sam's point, but the younger Winchester is pressing a glass of water on him. The drink helps Dean clear some of the scratchiness out of his voice, and he speaks with all the control he can muster.

"Sammy, I'm good for this. I really am." Dean is resolute; Sam returns the equanimity.

"Tomorrow, Dean," he says. "You promised. Tomorrow, we're taking you to a doctor."

The elder Winchester nods, coughing. He makes a face at the food Sam is pulling out of the takeout bags. "Sam, I'm really not hungry."

"It doesn't matter," Sam tells him. "Just shut up and eat, or at least try. It's tomato soup and grilled cheese, Dean. I think you can handle that."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Whatever, Samantha." He looks over at Castiel again, who is back to studying the coins Sam had swiped out of the lockers at Robert Fulton. "You said those were tokens," he says to the angel. "Tokens of what? Is it some sort of bad mojo someone's putting on the kids?"

Cas shakes his head. "I don't know," he responds, face faraway in thought as he peers at the objects in his hand. He palms them and looks up after a second. "Whatever this sigla is inscribed on them, it's very old. And powerful. May I take these with me?"

Sam is handing his brother a bowl of soup in a Styrofoam container. "Sure, I guess," he answers the angel, looking up. "Where are you going?" But Cas is already vanished and gone. Sam gives his head a wry shake. "I guess I should have been expecting that."

"Trust me, you never are," is all Dean says. He lifts a spoonful of soup to his mouth.

* * *

The apartment building that Miles Stanley had resided in is in a quiet neighborhood about a twenty-minute drive from the motel. Dean parks in the street in front of the building, both brothers back in their suits. The elder Winchester coughs raggedly into his elbow and sucks in air like a Hoover when the fit is over.

"I shouldn't have let you come," Sam remarks. "You sound like you're getting worse. You look like it, too." It's no exaggeration: Dean is practically trembling, his pallor sweaty and flushed. Just sitting next to his brother, Sam can feel the heat that is pouring relentlessly off him. The Tylenol doesn't seem to be doing such a great job of keeping his temperature down, a sure sign that this infection he's suffering from has the upper hand on him.

Dean doesn't make any response, opting instead to open the car door and spit a gob of phlegm onto the pavement. Sam sighs.

"Okay, that's it," Sam says. "You're staying in the car for this. This won't take more than twenty minutes." He gets out and slams the door behind him before Dean can object. As he walks up the steps to the building he can still hear Dean coughing in the car.

* * *

In actuality, the entire process from when Sam gets out of the car to when he returns takes less than five minutes. Dean looks up from rubbing his temple.

"Well, this was a waste of time," the younger Winchester says as he gets back in the passenger side.

"What happened?" Dean asks, his voice gravelly.

Sam gives Dean a quick once-over with his eyes. _God, he looks terrible. _"Absolutely nothing," he sighs. "I talked to the building manager. She said that Miles didn't have a wife, no kids, not even any living relatives. So his apartment was cleaned out and all his clothing and possessions were donated to charity. There's a new tenant in there now."

"And?"

Sam raises an eyebrow. "And…the end? There's nothing else to tell you, Dean. There isn't anything here for us to check out." He feels like this hunt is becoming a series of dead ends, and he's getting frustrated.

Dean doesn't respond, just starts the Impala and begins driving.

"Where we going?" Sam asks.

"Back to the motel to change, then let's go say hi to Miles," Dean absently rubs his chest as he speaks, as though it were sore.

Sam can't think of much else to do at this point until they hear from Cas, but still he's not sure if it's the soundest idea Dean's ever had. "You sure you're up for grave digging? I mean, you said yourself that you don't think this is a spirit we're dealing with." _If we're dealing with anything at all. _Sam is starting to feel like whatever is going on, it's out of their field of expertise. Looking at Dean, though, he can see his brother is determined, and there is no talking Dean Winchester out of something once his mind is made up, and Sam is not going to leave his brother's back unwatched.

"Sam, if we don't do anything at least remotely productive I'm going to feel like we wasted the day. So if that means setting fire to a corpse, then so be it." He stops and grins over at his brother.

"Besides, Sammy. I'm not up for digging graves, but you are."

The elder Winchester chuckles. Sam shakes his head.

* * *

The other thing that Sam does exceptionally well is stall.

Once the brothers are back at the hotel Sam feigns a sudden migraine. It's a low blow, he realizes, but he doesn't care. He wants Dean to get in bed and hopefully stay there until tomorrow, and he knows his brother will elect to stay at the hotel in deference to Sam's pain. So he fakes it and Dean predictably turns off the lights and the television and settles in front of the laptop, sitting up in one of the beds. Sam stretches out on the other and laces his fingers behind his head, figuring that by the time he's counted to a hundred Dean will be dozing. He closes his eyes and listens to the tapping on the keyboard. He starts to count.

He makes it to eighty-three before he starts to nod off, himself.

He's not sure how much time passes, he just knows that it's been quiet (apart from Dean's labored breathing) for some time. It's the sound of something moving just beyond the hotel room door that prods Sam awake. His eyes snap open and move in the direction of the perceived sound. There it is again, a faint rustling.

Soundlessly, the hunter rises off the bed and grabs his gun off the top of the television set. He glances over at Dean, aware that his brother is beginning to stir from his sleep. Sam puts a finger to his lips, but he needn't have worried. Dean has an uncanny knack for sensing danger; even as his eyes are opening he is already reaching for his knife under the pillow. He makes a deft motion with his hand and Sam nods, moving into position behind the door. Dean moves to the other side and holds his breath, listening intently while his younger brother reaches for the doorknob, ready.

There is definitely someone on the other side of the door. Dean holds up his index finger, meaning that as far as he can tell there is only one person out there. Sam nods again, tense. The elder Winchester takes a cautious breath, then flashes Sam a look, who immediately throws the door open while Dean reaches out. There is indeed a person standing there, apparently crouching as though trying to listen through the door. Dean grabs the shocked figure and yanks them inside roughly. Sam slams the door and helps Dean throw the person against it, knife to throat. Shocked, frightened eyes blink back at them. Sam and Dean exchange a look.

Their captive is a young woman, barely older than a girl. She looks at both of their faces in turn, breath hitching.

"I-I'm sorry," she blurts out. "I didn't mean to. I just wanted-"

"You wanted to what?" Dean interrupts. "You just wanted to get your throat slit? You could be dead right now. What were you doing?"

"I don't know," she stammers. "I wasn't sure if you were in there."

"So you were looking for us?" Sam demands. "Who sent you? Are you a demon?"

The girl's eyes widen. "A demon?" she asks. "I don't understand…No, no. I'm not a – a demon."

"Hold out your arm," Sam's voice is hard. When she hesitates, looking at the knife, he snaps at her. "Do it!"

She jumps, but holds out her arm like she's told. Dean holds her in place while Sam grabs a flask off the bedside table. Grasping her by the wrist, he pours holy water over her forearm. Nothing happens.

The brothers look at each other for a second and then let the girl go, who practically sighs in relief.

"What's your name?" Dean asks her. "And what the hell are you doing here?"

The girl rubs her wrist where Sam had grabbed her. "Jen," she says. "My name's Jen."

"Jen Burke?" Dean arches an eyebrow. Sam also has a look of disbelief on his face.

The girl nods, equally surprised. "Yes," she says. "How did you know that?"

"Because we met your parents," Dean says. "Nice folks, by the way. They didn't seem like the type to condone stalking."

"I could say the same for you guys," she says boldly. "What are _you_ doing?" She turns to Sam. "I tutor at Robert Fulton. I saw you this morning, breaking into my brother's locker."

"Good job with the stealth, Sammy," Dean mutters. Sam glares at his brother heatedly.

"And then you came by my apartment, asking about Miles." Jen whirls on Dean, who is speechless while she confronts him. "And now you say you've been talking to my parents? What the hell is this? Linda said you told her you were cops, but you're not, are you?"

Dean rubs a hand over his forehead. "You're quite the firecracker, huh?" he says to her, his voice weary. He looks at Sam, who raises his hands in a helpless gesture. Dean sighs in resignation. Screw it.

"Okay," he tells Jen. "You got us. We're not cops, but we're not the bad guys, either. But if we _were_," he adds sternly, "you would have been in a lot of trouble right about now. Did you think of that before you started tailing us?"

The girl looks Dean dead in the eye. "I just want you to leave my family alone. That's all."

In that second, Dean softens. He can relate to her sentiments exactly.

"Who's Linda?" Sam queries. He looks like he can just see the pieces fitting together. "She's the building manager I spoke with earlier, isn't she?"

Jen nods. "I moved into Miles' apartment. She's been keeping an eye out for us."

"Us?"

The girl folds her arms over her chest. "Tell me who you are first." For all her bravado, the brothers can see Jen is using all her nerve. It kindles a feeling of respect within the brothers for her, the fact that she took such a risk. A stupid risk, of course. But still.

Sam glances at Dean, who shrugs and sits down, shoulders slumping in exhaustion. Now that the excitement is over and the adrenalin has left his system, the elder Winchester is looking pale and shaky again. Jen's eyes follow him as he sits but snap back up to Sam when he clears his throat and starts to talk.

"I'm Sam," he gestures at himself, "and this is my brother Dean. Jen, we know who you are because we're looking into some stuff, including your brother's disappearance. We want to help." He pauses for a second, watching Jen's face carefully. "But you already knew that," he says suddenly. "That's why you're here, isn't it?"

Jen answers Sam's question with another question. "What else are you looking into besides my brother? Why exactly are you here?" She seems guarded, like her final judgment on the brothers' character rests on the answer she receives.

"Quid pro quo, Clarice," Dean interjects, standing up and striding over. "Why would your landlady be calling you about people asking her about Miles? Did you _know_ him?" Suddenly, the mother of all light bulbs goes off in the hunter's brain. Dean drops his voice, taking another step forward, face intense.

"Miles isn't dead, is he?" He smothers a cough before continuing. "And you know where your brother is."

Jen doesn't deny the accusation, and that says it all. Instead, she grabs Dean by the sleeve.

"Can you help us?" Her expression is beseeching.

Dean responds with complete certainty. "Yes," he says, as serious as he's ever been in his entire life. "But you need to tell us everything."

"There's no time!"

It's Castiel, who has appeared – as usual – out of nowhere. "We have to leave, now! She's been followed."

The words aren't even out of the angel's mouth before the front door is kicked open. Instantly, they are besieged. Three figures rush in. Jen screams, and Dean pushes her behind him. "Stay back!" he has time to bark out before he intercepts an attack. Dean throws a punch of his own, meeting the very human-looking stare of his aggressor. "Christo," he hisses, and is surprised when he gets no reaction. His assailant lands a blow across his jaw, and the hunter staggers back for a second before retaliating, head spinning.

It's Castiel who rushes in and saves the day. The angel is holding a knife in his hand, which he uses to make short work of his attacker. Slicing upward, the angel rips through soft belly tissue and steps back as the figure is consumed in black fire that spreads from the wound outward. A moment later, all that remains is a pile of charred ash.

Castiel whirls on Dean's assailant, his arms reaching around from behind and slicing the throat before moving to help Sam, Dean's attacker already a pile of soot and cinder. Together, Dean and his brother throw the final attacker against the wall. Castiel stabs the struggling form once in the heart and the brothers release him, but the body is ash before it crumples to the ground. It's over in a matter of seconds. The brothers and the angel stand in tense anticipation, waiting for sounds of footsteps running to join the fight. There is only silence.

Dean turns to Jen, who is standing still as a statue, frozen in absolute shock. "You definitely believe us now when we say that we're not the bad guys, right?" A nod. "Okay, then," he says. "Are you coming or what?" Another nod.

* * *

Dean is driving evasively in an effort to shake off pursuers, if any. Sam is checking the mirrors frequently and twisting his head to stare out the rear window. So far so good, but they aren't taking any chances. Castiel and Jen sit silently in the backseat after their introduction, minus the part about Cas being an angel of the Lord. That was a kernel of honesty that didn't need to be shared yet.

"So, Jen," Dean says conversationally, meeting her eye in rearview mirror. "Now's as good a time as any to tell us any good trivia you may know." He raises his eyebrows emphatically.

Jen nods shakily and grips her hands together. "My brother…you're right. He's okay. And Miles _is _alive." Dean whistles low at the confession, but doesn't interrupt her. "But something is after them," Jen stops and turns her face to the window. "You're just going to think I'm crazy," she mutters.

Sam twists his upper body to look back at her. "Crazier than what just happened back there?" he asks. "Trust me, Jen. We'll believe you."

Dean nods in agreement. "Crazy is kind of what we do. We're the last people you need to worry about not believing you."

Jen looks at the brothers and the angel for a long moment. Finally, she begins talking again.

"I never knew Miles. I didn't go to school at Robert Fulton, and I never saw him whenever I would go in to tutor. I didn't meet him until after he saved Tate's life. It started back when Miles was attacked leaving the school one night in the parking lot." She pauses before continuing. "He was attacked by his double. It tried to tie him up, but he got away and made it into his car. The thing ran out in front of him, and he ran it over and killed it. He didn't know what to do, so he ditched the car and made it look like it was stolen and then went home. He ran into Linda and he had to come clean about what happened, before whatever that thing was that attacked him was identified as him. She didn't believe him at first, but then the news came on later that evening and they were saying that Miles had been killed by thieves who ran him over with his own car. She's been looking out for him and us ever since."

"This thing," Dean says. "It was his double, you said?" He frowns, thinking.

Sam's own wheels are also turning in his head. What the hell is this?

Jen nods. "Yes. His exact double. And then a week ago Tate was jumped in the locker room after practice by someone who looked exactly like him. He says he was pushed and he hit his head on the floor. When he came to, it was tying his feet together. Tate kicked it in the face before it saw he was awake and he stunned it. He managed to untie himself and he ran out. He came across his basketball coach, Mr. Patterson, and another teacher in the hallway, but by then the locker room was empty and the thing was gone. Tate never mentioned it to mom and dad, but he called me and told me about it. He was terrified but he knows what he saw." Jen looks at the men in the car like she's daring them to challenge her in disbelief. Upon encountering no resistance, however, she seems encouraged enough to continue. "The next day Tate went to school like nothing happened. And then after basketball practice Mr. Patterson came into the locker room and pulled Tate aside." Her chin trembles slightly in anger. "He told my brother that unless he went quietly with him after school that day, he was going to kill mom and dad."

"And that's why Tate attacked him," Dean finishes for her. He is satisfied with the explanation and nods. "I'd have done the same thing myself."

Jen returns the nod emphatically. "Exactly. But get this," she leans forward. "When Miles was attacked? His double wasn't alone. Mr. Patterson was watching the whole time. Miles saw him standing in a window at the school from his rearview mirror when he was driving away. So Miles started watching him secretly, and thank God he was, because he followed him the night he came to my parents' house. He saw Mr. Patterson trying to break in the back door so he threw a rock in the neighbor's pool and that got their dog barking, which set off all the other dogs in the neighborhood. Mr. Patterson ran away and when Tate stuck his head out his bedroom window to see what all the noise was about, Miles convinced him to leave with him. He did, and when they got back to his apartment Tate called me. Mom and dad don't know. How can they? It's too crazy." She shakes her head as though she can barely believe it, herself.

"Miles and your brother," Sam says. "Where are they now?"

"Miles is back at my place, and I'm in his. We switched apartments. We figured it was safer this way, since whatever is after him may be looking for him. Tate's been hiding out with me, since he can't go home. Linda's been keeping a lookout for us, and when you came to the building asking about Miles she was concerned. She called me as soon as you left. I was able to make it to my car in time to follow you. As soon as she described you, Sam, I knew it had to have been you. I mean, I saw you breaking into Tate's locker this morning." She holds her hands out in an ironic gesture. "And here we are."

Dean looks over at Sam, who is mulling over what he's just heard. "You thinking aliens, too?" he jokes feebly. "Like Invasion of the Body Snatchers? Or The Faculty?"

"I don't think so, Elijah," Sam says, trying to appreciate Dean's feigned levity.

"Doppelgangers," Castiel pipes up, his voice and expression placid.

"It speaks," Dean says, glancing at Cas in the rearview mirror. The angel returns Dean's stare passively. "What was that you said? And where did you go off to the last time you disappeared, anyway?"

"Europe," is all Cas divulges. Then he resumes his previous explanation. "What attacked Miles and Tate, what I saw in Minnesota: They're doppelgangers."

"You mean, people's evil twins?" Dean frowns.

"Well, yes, but that's not always necessarily the case," Cas corrects the elder Winchester. "They do tend to counterbalance the original person, so if he or she is inherently good, then the doppelganger will be evil, yes. But it could work the other way, also."

"So are you saying mine is good or evil?" Dean queries, lifting an eyebrow.

Cas looks at Dean for a moment before answering. "I have a theory on that," he says but doesn't offer anything else. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the tokens he had taken with him. "I was able to find a text that explains the sigla on these. These are summoning spells, very powerful ones. When we were attacked back at the hotel, those were other doppelgangers. The knife I used has inscriptions on its hilt that have the same origins as what is on these tokens. When I stabbed them, the spells over them were broken. Not only that, but there are names on these." Cas holds up one of the tokens. "This one bears your brother's name. He's been marked, possibly by John Patterson." Jen squints the coins, not understanding.

"Was that in Tate's locker?" Jen looks to Sam, who nods.

"Those other kids," Dean cuts in. "The ones who wigged out, including one from whose locker you got that other one from…they aren't really the kids, are they?"

Cas shakes his head. "No, I don't believe so. I think that someone is deliberately summoning and controlling these doppelgangers through these sigils. And they've taken the kids somewhere. Tate got away, which means whoever is behind this will be searching for him before his doppelganger can take his place."

Dean nods. "Okay," he says simply. Then, "Cas, are you sure we're not being followed?" The angel nods, certain. Dean guns the accelerator, tightening his grip on the wheel. "In that case, we're going to get your brother, Jen. Who knows how long you were tailed for, and there's a chance they may know where you live now. And we're grabbing Miles, too. Then we're going to track Johnny-boy down and have a chat, assuming that is actually him and not one of the pod people." He flicks a glance over at Sam, then Cas. "How much do we know about doppelgangers?" he asks.

Sam takes a deep breath. Not much, but he's going to be taking a crash course on the subject shortly here. Beside him, Dean suddenly breaks into a vicious round of coughing. Sam winces. His brother sounds terrible, and he can see how hard he's struggling to draw in air. The coughing continues, unabated. Dean is gasping, his face going red.

Jen leans forward, brown eyes dark with concern. She reaches a hand out to rest on Dean's shoulder. "Are you okay?" she asks hesitantly.

Dean shifts a little and manages to brush off her hand inconspicuously. "I'm fine," he manages between wheezes. "I'm good."

Probably what Sam excels at the most, above arguing, bluffing, and stalling, is being able to tell when his brother is full of shit. He sighs and tries to ignore the growing ball of worry in his gut. He wonders idly if he's going to get an ulcer from it all one day. If he does, he's going to tie his brother down so he can always keep an eye on him and never fear for his safety.

For now, he resolves to watch his brother's back and just make sure he gets through this okay.

* * *

A/N: If you feel like reviewing, I would say that is a very good idea. And I would be ever so grateful.


	7. Playing the Fine Game of Human Chess

Everyone, you have been so wonderful to me. Thanks so much for the reviews, alerts, and favorites. I'm flattered and honoured. There are so many incredible works on this site, so I'm extremely grateful to you that you've been spending time with mine. Thanks so much for the support.

Disclaimer: Don't even own my car.

* * *

Sam has to admit, Jen is good at rolling with the punches. She does seem to be watching them closely but he can't say he blames her. She did just get in a car with three strange men, after all, two of them having pinned her to a wall and accusing her of being a demon only a few short minutes ago. He feels bad for how forceful he was, how he'd jumped to the worst conclusion without a second thought. It's become a knee-jerk reaction now, and he hates it. Just like how he hates that he still can't help but wonder how she can seem so _accepting_ of everything that just went down. She isn't asking questions, or looking all that shocked, for that matter. She's just…quiet. It's a little odd.

He turns his head and Jen meets his eye. He offers a reassuring smile. "Everything's going to be fine," he says. "I'm sure your brother is still safe." Out of his peripheral he sees Dean giving him a sharp glance. Both brothers know Sam is lying; they both strongly doubt Tate is safe. If Jen was followed it was from the apartment building, which means she's simultaneously given away her brother's location _and_ led those doppelgangers straight to their motel room door.

During the drive, Castiel had shed some light on what exactly doppelgangers are.

"Doppelganger," he told them, "meaning 'double-goer' in German, but they are called many other things as well. They're considered ill omens, harbingers of bad luck, and the moral inversion of the actual person it is doubling. "

"So that explains why these things are playing good kids gone bad," Dean mused. "Because they _are _the bad version."

"A reverse carbon copy," Sam agreed.

"And those tokens Sam ganked," Dean said slowly, thinking out loud. "The inscriptions on them, Cas, you said that they're like a summoning spell, tailor-made for each victim. That's why they have specific names on them."

"That's what I believe," the angel answered solemnly. "They must act like a homing signal for the doppelganger."

Now, as Sam mulls over what Cas had told them, he remembers how silently Jen had sat and listened. Again, there had been no questions on her part. It's now definitely _very_ odd. In fact, the more Sam thinks about what Jen's told them, the less he believes her. Namely, he doesn't see how she and Tate could have managed to avoid whomever or whatever is controlling the doppelgangers, since they have her brother's doppelganger and through it must also know about Jen. From there it would only be a simple matter of tracking her and Tate down, which wouldn't have been difficult. He doesn't squelch his feelings of suspicion, this time. He glances at Dean, who is driving like a bat out of hell. He can tell by how his older brother is clenching his jaw that he's thinking along those same lines. Something is up, and whatever it is, it's probably a trap.

Sam clears his throat, tries to break the eerie silence. "So, Jen," he tries. "How old are you?"

Jen meets Sam's eye directly when she answers. "Twenty two," she replies. Then she snorts. "Actually, today is my birthday. Great, huh?"

Sam grimaces ruefully and shakes his head. "Ouch," he says.

"Looks like it's going to be a milestone, anyway," Dean remarks. He raises his arm to his mouth and coughs deeply. When he's done, Sam reaches into the glove box and pulls out a bottle of water he's got wisely stashed away. He loosens the cap and wordlessly passes it to his brother, who accepts it. He takes a long swallow and chuckles dryly. "On the bright side, Sam, looks like we can definitely rule out any spirit, which means no grave digging for you."

Sam stares at his brother, aghast. He can't believe Dean just said that in front of a civilian. He risks a look at Jen, but she doesn't even seem the slightest bit bothered by any mention of spirits and illegal – not to mention creepy - activities such as digging up dead bodies. "Dean," he hisses, throwing a pointed look towards the backseat.

Dean looks in the rearview mirror, then back at Sam. "What?" he asks, clearly not getting his younger brother's point.

Sam suddenly understands how sick Dean is. _It's the fever; he doesn't even realize he said it out loud._

Shit really does roll downhill. Things have officially gone from bad to worse.

"Nothing," he says to the elder Winchester. "Just get us there in one piece, without crashing." He makes a strongly worded mental note to himself that he will be driving from this point on. The last thing they need is Dean passing out behind the wheel, and the first thing Dean needs is a doctor. However, Sam is dismally starting to realize that what Dean needs may be the last thing he gets. He feels like things are spiraling out of control all of a sudden.

Dean has a sour look on his face. "Dude, don't insult me," he says. "No way am I crashing my car."

Sam just sighs loudly and pats discreetly at his gun and his knife, tucked hidden under the waistband of his jeans, feels their reassuring bulk under his shirt and jacket.

Listens to Dean coughing.

* * *

When the Impala rolls to a stop in front of the apartment building, Jen points to the top floor. "We're in the corner apartment," she says. "Number 710." She looks at Dean with contrition. "Elevator's been broken for the last couple of days."

"That's terrific," Dean deadpans as they climb out of the car. Once on the street he turns away and starts to cough so hard he bends at the waist. It gets so bad Sam springs forward, afraid he's going to pass out before he gets the chance to take a breath again.

"Hey. Hey, Dean," he says quietly, rubbing and patting between his brother's shoulder blades. "Just slow it down. Nice and easy breathing." Sam tries to sound calm but in reality he's flat out disturbed by how hot Dean feels, even through his clothes and despite the fact it's evening and bordering on chilly. He feels even warmer than before, and the sound of his coughing is so painful it makes Sam wince. "God, you're a mess, man."

Dean recovers enough to give Sam a glare. "Awesome way to say you care, Sam," he says, and sidesteps away from the hand Sam has on his back. "Get off me."

The elder Winchester turns and follows Jen up the stairs leading to the door of the building, leaving his brother and Castiel behind. The angel and the hunter fall into step beside each other.

"I'm worried about your brother," Cas says softly.

"That makes two of us," Sam agrees in hushed tones. "He's really sick."

"I'm not just talking about that," the angel replies, and then falls silent. Up ahead, Dean has stopped and half turns to face Sam and Cas. He locks eyes with Sam immediately, flicks a quick look upwards before turning around to resume walking. Sam quickly follows his gaze up to track where Dean had been indicating and sees a curtain rustle on a third floor window. The younger Winchester glances briefly at Cas and sees the angel has also noticed that they are being watched.

Jen is turning her key in the door to the building when Sam and Castiel catch up. The lobby is empty, and she gestures to a door adjacent to the elevator, which is brandishing an "out of order" sign. "This way," she says hurriedly, obviously anxious to get to her brother.

They make it to the second floor before they hear footsteps coming down from the floor above them. Sam tenses, ready. But Jen clearly isn't concerned, even quickens her pace to meet the approaching person. As they round the flight of steps that separates them Sam can see the figure is a woman in her mid forties. The woman looks happy to see Jen, but trepidation registers on her face when she sees the three men in her company. Her gaze rests on Sam a fraction of a second longer than Dean or Cas; it's clear that she recognizes him from earlier.

"Linda," Jen says, a relieved smile on her face. "It's okay. They've come to help." Linda nods warily, looking from face to face. Dean tries to give her a nod, but he's too busy smothering his coughing into his arm as best he can. Sam can hear how winded he is after only two flights of stairs, how shallow and loud his breathing is.

"Has there been anything…?" Jen asks. Linda shakes her head and speaks in hushed tones.

"Nothing that I've seen," the woman tells her. She brings a hand to her face to tuck away a strand of hair and Sam can see that she's obviously a nervous nail-biter and has had more than her fair share of stress recently. Her nails have been chewed down to almost nothing. "But please, Jen, be careful," Linda urges, embracing the younger woman briefly.

Castiel reaches out and touches Linda gently on the arm. "I think it would be best if you went back to your apartment and locked the door," he says in his quietly compelling way, holding the woman fast with his eyes as he gazes intently at her. The angel exerts an aura of power that is undeniable, and Sam can almost tell the exact moment when the woman's breath catches in her throat before she turns and does exactly what he's suggested she do.

By the fourth flight of stairs, Dean is lagging. Sam slows his pace in response and lets Cas move ahead to keep Jen covered. He walks alongside his brother, and drops his voice. "Dean? Are you going to make it?"

Dean throws daggers at his brother, glaring indignantly. "Yes, Sam," he spits. "I can walk up some friggin' stairs! Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Don't start with that, either," the elder Winchester mutters, rubbing his forehead before dropping his hand to cover his mouth while he coughs.

"Start with what, Dean?"

Dean sighs. "That thing you do where first you go beyond making your point that you're worried about something, then you start acting like I need my hand held, then you begin with your damn psychotherapy. Just save it, Sam, I'm-" Suddenly Dean goes down like a sack of potatoes. Sam isn't sure which Winchester is more surprised.

"Dean!" Sam's down on one knee beside his brother, who is already trying to stand back up again. "Hey, just take it easy for a second." His brother is so dazed that Sam barely has to exert any force when he moves Dean to sit propped against the wall. Sam quickly checks the elder Winchester's pulse, rests the back of his hand against Dean's cheek before he can object.

"You're burning up. This is really bad, Dean." Sam drags a hand through his hair distractedly. Dean's breathing like he's forgotten how, all gasps and wheezes. "Maybe I should take you to the hospital-" but Dean is already shaking his head.

"Sammy, listen," the elder Winchester says. "I know you're worried. I get it, I do. And I'm a little concerned here, myself," he attempts a rueful grin, but he's shivering too hard to pull it off successfully and grimaces instead. "But right now I think it's best if we start thinking like there's a good chance the door to this building will come busting open any minute now with more of those things. We have to keep moving until this is done. So let's just finish this hunt as quick as we can, okay?" He licks his lips. "Watch my back?"

Sam scrubs a hand over his face. Exhales a long breath out his nose. Checks the scream that is threatening to erupt. Another thing that Sam hates lately is how Dean seems to need to ask that question these days.

Above all, though, what he hates the _most _is that he's responsible for Dean losing his confidence in his little brother in the first place. He knows that Dean's been working on building that trust back ever since they started hunting together again, but the very fact that he has to try stabs the younger Winchester straight through the gut. It's enough to break his heart. Again. He takes a steadying breath and looks his brother straight in the eye.

"Of course I've got your back, Dean." _I hope you know how much I mean that._

Dean swallows, nods. He's finally managed to get his breathing back under control. "Okay," he says. He pushes himself up onto his feet and the brothers catch up to Cas and Jen.

Upon arriving on the seventh floor, the company is greeted with the normal sounds of apartment living. Televisions, laughter, and music commingle in the hallway. Jen takes them down to the end to the last door, the number 710 nailed to it. She knocks and waits, then knocks again: two taps, then three.

After a moment's silence, the deadbolt turns and the door opens to reveal Tate Burke on the other side. Like Jen, he is short. He also has dark hair like his sister. He freezes slightly when he sees the Winchesters and Cas, but doesn't seem too surprised to see them.

"You talk to them?" he asks hesitantly, opens the door a little wider.

"They say they can help," Jen answers as she steps through. The brothers and the angel follow suit and Tate backs up to give them all room.

"Hi, Tate," Sam tries his best to sound reassuring. "We've, uh, we've kind of been looking for you. I'm Sam, this is my brother, Dean, and this is Cas." Tate's eyes slide over Sam's shoulder, and the younger Winchester suddenly knows that the teenager is looking back to the closed door. Which no one checked when they stepped through it.

He knows right then and there they've made a terrible mistake.

The sound of a gun cocks behind him.

"Walk ahead, slowly, into the living room," a voice growls. "Hands up and don't turn around until I tell you to. Jen, Tate, go on ahead and turn on a lamp, then move away." A pause, then the voice resumes in a lower tone. "If any of you makes the slightest move towards either of them, I swear to God…"

"Don't you think we would have already, if we were going to?" Dean sounds impatient but he falls in line behind Sam and Cas as they move down the hall. Tate and Jen have already turned on a light as instructed and are standing in the kitchen on the other side of the small apartment. Sam catches Jen's eye, and she holds his stare for a moment before she looks away and puts her arm around her younger brother's shoulders protectively. For his part, Tate is staring wide-eyed at the brothers and the angel.

"So I take it you must be Miles?" Sam asks.

"Turn around, slowly." The voice responds.

The Winchesters and the angel exchange quick glances, but otherwise turn around without argument.

The man holding the gun steps forward and then freezes. His eyes widen and he slowly lowers the weapon. He takes another step and the light from the lamp illuminates his face.

"I don't believe it," he says. "Dean? Sam? Is that you?" He squints at them like he really can't believe it.

Dean, however, can. The elder Winchester breaks into a slow grin. The tension visibly drains out of him. "I'll be damned," he says. "Harris? What's it been, fifteen, sixteen years?"

"Eighteen," Harris corrects him. He tucks his gun away and steps forward to clasp Dean on the shoulder warmly, who returns the gesture. "But Sam's right. It's Miles now."

Sam is pretty sure his jaw is on the floor. Dean looks over at him and his grin gets a little wider. "Sam," he says. "You don't remember?"

Sam doesn't remember.

Harris (Miles?) chuckles and shakes his head. "Oh, it's okay, Dean. He was just a squirt the last time I saw your brother. Sam Winchester. You grew up tall, kid."

The younger Winchester still finds himself at a loss, so Dean helps jog his memory.

"Remember when you were eight and we stayed at Bobby's for that week while Dad took off to hunt a pair of poltergeists in Jackson? And he busted his leg when that stairwell collapsed under him? Harris joined him on the hunt and drove him back to Bobby's, since he couldn't." Dean claps Harris on the back again. "Son of a bitch," he says and shakes his head. "Eighteen years."

Sam's memories click into place. He remembers looking out Bobby's window when he could hear the roar of the approaching Impala as it entered the junkyard. He remembers seeing that Dad wasn't alone in the car when it got near enough to tell, and that he wasn't behind the wheel. Harris looks older than how he remembers him, of course. His pale blonde hair has thinned significantly, and there are deep lines around the corners of his eyes. But still, here he is. A piece of his Dad's past, of his life. Sam swallows the lump in his throat and steps forward, extending his hand.

"Nick Harris, right? Or, was?"

"Was," the man agrees, taking Sam's hand and pumping it enthusiastically. "I've been Miles Stanley for seventeen years now. I almost forget who Nick is. That was…a lifetime ago," he shakes his head, mouth pursed in a tight line.

The rest of it comes back to Sam in a rush. He remembers when, some six months after the poltergeist hunt, John came back from the bar in a drunken, melancholy stupor, sitting in front of the television in that crappy rented room while thirteen year old Dean steers his little brother aside and speaks in hushed tones.

"Leave Dad alone right now," he had told Sam. "He's had some bad news."

"What, Dean?"

"Remember Nick? The man who brought Dad back after the hunt in Jackson after he got busted up? His son died today."

"How?"

"The hunt, Sammy. He was killed in a hunt they went on together."

"How old was he?"

"I don't know, Sam. Sixteen? Seventeen? Does it matter?"

"Why did Nick let him come on the hunt?"

"Geez, Sammy. Enough questions. He let his kid come along with him because he was old enough to decide for himself what he wanted to do. People die. It's sad, but it happens."

Sam feels his face darken at the memory. Sometimes you die -more than once, even- but you come back, anyway. And you don't get to decide which one it is, whether you do or you don't. It's sad, but it happens.

* * *

The introduction between Cas and Miles is quick. The angel and the brothers are ushered to the couches. "Please, sit," Miles tells them. "We're safe here." He sits opposite them, and motions for Jen and Tate to come join. "It's okay," he says. "Dean and Sam are sons of an old friend of mine." He turns somber eyes to the Winchesters. "I'm still in touch with some people, and I was sorry to hear about your father," he tells them. "He was a good man."

Dean clears his throat. "Thanks…Miles," he says, obviously fumbling with the different name. Miles notices the slip but smiles it off. "So this is where you've been all this time? Dad never heard from you again since, since…" he trails off, unsure how to proceed. Thankfully, the awkward lapse is disguised by an outburst of coughing.

"Since Riley?" Miles finishes, surreptitiously watching Dean as he struggles to get control of the fit. "Yeah, that's about right. I wasn't handling it well, you know. So I retired from the job, pointed to a city on the map, ended up doing janitorial work, and here I am." He pauses. "That's the abridged version, anyway. And things were good this whole time, until this all starts up. This doppelganger business."

"So you already knew what these things were?" Sam queries.

Miles nods. "I've seen them before, on a hunt in Georgia about twenty five years ago. But it wasn't like how this is now; there wasn't anyone controlling them. "

Out of nowhere, Tate suddenly pipes up. "Are you guys hunters, too?" he asks, and Dean arches an eyebrow.

"Yeah, I guess we are," he answers. He shoots Miles a quizzical look.

The ex hunter raises his hands in defence. "Trust me, it wasn't my intention to let that cat out of the bag," he explains. "But it's a small apartment, and I may have held onto some souvenirs of my former life. I haven't had house guests in a while, you know."

"So that much is true? Jen and Tate have been hiding here?" Sam questions. He doesn't mean to, but he flicks a glance at Jen and it may have been a tad on the incriminating side, because her cheeks redden slightly and she glances down.

Miles is sharp. He notices the silent exchange and moves to ease the tension. "It was my idea," he begins. "I knew she'd be a good lure, and that chances were pretty good that she'd get back here safely either way. Tate's who they ultimately want, after all."

Dean looks incredulous. "Pretty good…either way?" he echoes Miles, trying to keep the judgment out of his voice. "You used her as bait?"

Jen flares to life without warning.

"I _wanted_ to do it," she interrupts, eyes flashing. "We had to know if you were one of those things."

"They know that I was following Patterson," Miles continues calmly. "The night I tailed him to the Burke's house, what really happened is that I went after him. But this body is old and out of practice, and I can't jump fences anymore like I used to. The bastard got away, but not before he managed to get a look at my face. They'll be after me as much as they are Tate. Jen was the safest bet to bring you here, see if you were one of them or not, maybe get some answers out of you if you were."

Sam feels embarrassed with himself for begrudging the dishonesty on Jen's part. He already knew he was being a little irrational, but now it really hits home that she is just an innocent victim of circumstance, and she's trying to keep it together. Of course she's frightened. It must have been terrible for her to sit so calmly in the Impala on the drive here. To let herself be caught by them back at the motel.

"That was very brave of you, Jen," he says with sincerity. She seems slightly mollified by it.

"Thanks," she says before she rises and walks into the kitchen. She grabs a glass out of the cupboard and fills it from the tap. She comes back in and places it on the coffee table in front of Dean, within his reach. "Anyone for coffee? I'm not going to sleep anytime soon." She heads back into the kitchen and starts to make a pot.

Tate remains where he's sitting, eyeing up their visitors with a mix of curiosity and excitement. "Tell me what it's like," he says eagerly. "What kind of stuff have you hunted? How do you do it?"

Sam laughs nervously. "I don't know how much Miles has told you, Tate," he says hesitantly, exchanging looks with his brother and Cas. Dean's face is unreadable, and the angel doesn't look like he's planning on interceding.

The teenager frowns. "Nothing. He won't tell me anything," he complains.

"And that's how it's going to stay for now," Dean interjects firmly. He takes the glass of water and drinks. When he puts it back, Sam can see how badly his hand is trembling.

Miles sees it, too. This time, he says something.

"Dean, are you all right?" he asks warily. "Not to intrude where it's none of my business, but you look terrible."

"Everyone seems to love pointing that out to me every five minutes," the elder Winchester grumbles, dragging a hand over his face wearily. "Don't worry about it, instead maybe we should be concerned with how safe we really are here. Maybe we should start thinking about where to go next."

"I told you, this is as safe as it's going to get for us for the time being," Miles assures him.

Cas nods in affirmation. "He's right. I don't feel anything…I don't think there is anything to worry about at the moment."

Miles nods, satisfied. "I still have a couple tricks up my sleeve. I learned how to put together an interesting spell bag while hunting a coven of witches." He motions to Tate and Jen, and the siblings reach under their collars and withdraw small pouches tied around their necks with leather cords. He pulls one out from under his clothing also. "It makes you psychically invisible to any supernatural being. They can't track you unless they can actually see you, because they can't sense your energies. Jen here has to keep the appearance of going about her daily routines so as not to cause suspicion, so I keep an eye on her, make sure she isn't being followed." He cocks an eyebrow. "Turns out, I'm still a damn good tracker. Haven't had my cover blown yet."

Dean chuckles. "You can take the man out of the hunt, but you can't take the hunter out of the man."

The elder man smiles broadly. "Exactly." He turns to the angel. "So what you're saying is you can sense these things? Are you a psychic?"

The angel shakes his head. "No, but it seems that I'm attuned to their presence when they are nearby. Both times I've encountered them I've felt something…strange."

Miles raises an eyebrow. "Both? You mean the doppelgangers attacked you before the hotel, too?"

Sam shakes his head. "No, the first encounter wasn't malicious. It was Dean's doppelganger, and it appeared to Cas in Minnesota. It gave him a newspaper article about Tate's disappearance." Tate's face slackens in surprise and he jumps up. In the kitchen, Jen has stopped pouring water into the coffee machine to listen better.

"Really?" Tate asks. "You're serious?"

" 'Fraid so," Dean says. But the teenager doesn't look dismayed to hear it. He turns to Cas.

"You mean, Dean's doppelganger came to you to tell you about me? That is so cool!"

"No, kid, it's not," Dean says, his voice raw and scratchy. "It means that your little escape has really networked through the channels and who knows how many of these things are out there looking for you, whether they're being controlled or not. You know something that ordinary people shouldn't know, and that makes you a potential threat to them. That's a big problem." He can barely get the last sentence out before he breaks off into another coughing spell. Sam puts a hand on Dean's shoulder to steady him as he curls forward. He's baking hot. The coughing sounds terrible, and it doesn't seem like Dean's getting any air at all. Suddenly, he slumps forward without warning and Sam has to keep him from falling forward off the couch. The coughing has stopped, but that's because Dean appears to have blacked out. The younger Winchester exchanges a worried look with Cas over the top of his brother's back.

"Dean? Dean, can you hear me?" He pulls his brother back up to a sitting position. Dean blinks and tries to shake the fog off. When he gets his bearings he shrugs off Sam's hands.

"Yeah, Sam. I can hear you," he says and presses the heels of his palms against his eyes and sits forward. "Just dizzy. Gimme a sec." He takes a shuddery breath, wheezing.

Miles looks at Sam sharply. "When did Dean get sick?" he asks, the urgent edge to his tone unmistakable.

Sam is unsettled by Miles' sudden intensity. "He started getting bad not that long ago," he admits. "The first time Cas called Dean to tell him about Minnesota he was already getting sick. It's been snowballing ever since."

"I'm in the room," Dean sighs. "You don't have to go over my head to ask questions about me."

Miles doesn't say anything. Instead, he gets up and crosses the room to a bookshelf. He grabs an undecorated, leather bound book and thumbs through the pages. When he finds what he's looking for he comes back and hands the open book to Sam, who begins to read. His expression darkens and he shows it to Cas. Dean is back to rubbing his eyes as if they were trying to push their way out of his skull and misses the exchange. The angel reads.

"What's it say?" Tate asks. He squints at the pages, but the book is written in Latin. Jen is back to standing beside her brother, and she is also clearly waiting to hear about what Miles has just shown them.

"Bad news, is what it says," Miles says. He turns to Tate and his sister. "I told you that when your own doppelganger appears before you it's a sign of bad things to come in your future."

By now Dean has looked up, waiting for Miles to finish.

The elder man continues. "But when you see someone else's? That portends something bad for the person the doppelganger is doubling."

"Like an illness," Cas says, eyes scanning the text. Dean snorts dismissively.

Tate mulls over the information. "So, was his doppelganger warning Cas about Dean getting sick, or did it _make_ Dean sick by appearing to him?"

"I don't think it matters," Sam says. He looks over at his brother. "Either way, it's bad."

Dean looks like he wants to tell Sam to shut up, but instead he raises his arm to his face and coughs.

Miles turns to Sam and Cas, discreetly giving Dean time to recover himself. "I hope you don't mind my saying, but I'm glad you're here, nonetheless. I could use the help. We have a plan." He looks over his shoulder at Jen and Tate. "These kids already know what's going on. They're as much a part of this as the rest of us." He says the words as though he has to justify himself before he can continue.

"If we want to stop this and hopefully save those kids that were taken, we have to stop the person or thing behind this. We have to get to the source. And we need them to show us where. And that's exactly why we're going to let them take Jen."

* * *

A/N: As always, I would love to hear your thoughts. Thanks for your time!


	8. Things Are Never That Easy

Two more chapters! Thanks for sticking through this!

Disclaimer: Not mine. Nope.

* * *

_This is insane. I can't believe I'm agreeing to this. _Sam surprises himself with his acquiescence. Even Castiel is keeping silent, indicating his own willingness to go along with Miles.

The plan is straightforward enough: Jen will go back to Robert Fulton tomorrow under their watchful eyes. She'll be there under the pretense of giving a tutoring lesson but instead will pay a visit to Patterson, who should be back from his leave of absence after the "attack," and confront him. If she isn't kidnapped before she leaves the high school she will simply go back to her own apartment and wait to be taken. From there it's a simple matter of following Jen and her captors, killing the bad guy, and rescuing the kids.

_Please let it be that simple._ Sam can't let himself think about it going any other way, because if this _does _blow up in their faces he has no clue where to take things next.

And then there's Dean.

In truth, Sam's driven to near total distraction over it, this thing with his brother and his doppelganger. Even the lore he's read online has confirmed what Miles has shown him. Seeing one's own doppelganger forecasts death, while seeing the doppelganger of a friend or family member predicts imminent danger for the person being doubled. Some sites even specifically mentioned illness as one possible outcome. It explains some things – like how fast this sickness overtook Dean, for one– but it also raises other issues. One immediate concern (and it's a big one) is how effective medical attention will be if the root cause of Dean's pneumonia is supernatural. And it's not like the Tylenol or the cough medicine they've tried has helped, if that's any sign. Sam is beginning to suspect that the best thing for Dean is carrying on with what they're already doing: working on the hunt. For now, Sam has settled for plying his brother with as much water as he can get into him. He's torn between forcing the older Winchester to lie down on the couch or letting him keep his dignity, which Sam knows would be affronted if he made any show of his weakness in front of these people he hardly knows. Even Dad's old friend is a stranger of sorts to the brothers.

_And I still have to tell you that you're not coming on this one. _That's the clincher. So dignity it is. Dean will already feel subordinated by his little brother when the news is broken to him that he's staying behind. No sense adding insult to injury.

To say he's feeling the pressure to get this wrapped up as quickly as possible would be a gross understatement. He's nearly frantic to get it done; he's surprised that he can sound so levelheaded as he talks with Miles. He doesn't know how he's keeping it together. He looks down at the expectant faces of Tate and his older sister, sees the blatant trust in their eyes. He looks at Dean.

Yep, that's how.

* * *

Dean tries to focus and listen to the conversation as best he can over the buzzing in his head, in his ears. He doesn't like what he's hearing about Jen willingly signing up to play bait, but he can't think up a better plan than the one Miles is proposing. He can hear Sam speaking in quiet tones and allows his eyes to drift closed momentarily. Sammy's got it; he's looking after things. It's okay if he just rests for a minute.

The couch dips beside him. Dean opens bleary eyes and sees Jen sitting next to him. He tries for a smile, but he's not sure if it's successful because her expression doesn't change. She's frowning at him, looks concerned.

"You okay with doing this?" he rasps. "Because if you're not, we can think of something else-"

"I'm okay with this, Dean." Jen interrupts him gently. "I am. It's for my brother. If it keeps him safe and if it helps find those other kids..." she trails off and shakes her head. "And not just them. Mom and Dad are worried sick about Tate; they have no idea he's here. He needs to go home. And the parents of those other kids…they're living with those things. They don't even know their kids are missing. I don't see any other way to get this done, do you?"

Dean licks his lips, shakes his head. "No, I don't," he confesses. "But I'm sort of having an off-day at the moment."

"Clearly," Jen agrees dryly. "Maybe you should lie down?"

_Love to. Wake me in fifty years. _Dean passes a weary hand over his face. "Later," he mumbles. "I will later." What will he do later? He struggles to remember, but can't. "Gotta wait for Dad to get home."'

"What?"

Dean doesn't answer, just presses his forehead more firmly into his hand. His head is killing him. His chest is sore. It's hard to breathe. When he closes his eyes, he sees little pricks of light dotting the inside of his eyelids. He knows he's slipping, can feel it as he is sliding away from the room, but can't pull himself together. He can't stay in the now.

_That's one deep, dark __**nothing**__ you've got there, Dean._

Dean's head whips up. It's like it was whispered right into his ear, it sounds that close. He looks over at Jen, confused. "What did you just say?" he asks.

Jen looks more than a little surprised. "Me? I didn't say anything. I asked you what you said. Something about your dad?"

And then Sam is suddenly eye level with Dean, looking him right in the face, eyes wide and alarmed. "Dean?" he asks. "What's going on? How are you doing?"

"He mentioned your dad," Jen says. And that's the magic word. Dad. It's like a bucket of cold water to the face and Dean snaps out of his daze like a rubber band.

"I'm fine, Sam. I'm just tired." He feels a hand on his shoulder. Hears Sam's voice in his ear.

"Dean, I need to tell you something. You're not going to like it."

Dean snorts. "I usually don't. But you're going to tell me, anyway."

There's a slight pause, then, "When this goes down tomorrow, you won't be coming."

_Ouch, Sam._

Dean stifles his first response in deference to present company and keeps it civilized.

"Son of a bitch, Sam." Almost civilized, at least. "What the hell are you saying? That I'm not invited? It's not a slumber party, you know. And even if it was, I'm the one that found this hunt, so I'm pretty sure that makes it _my _slumber party." He can see his younger brother flinch visibly at his words. He almost feels bad about it, but right now he's too insulted to feel much guilt.

"Dean, someone has to stay here with Tate as a last line of defence, in case….And you have to admit, you're not exactly up to par right now."

There's a voice coming from above Dean's shoulder. "I'll be staying behind, also." Cas.

"No, you won't be," Dean snaps at the angel. "You'll be going with them, Cas. I don't need a babysitter." He focuses his attention on Sam. "You want me to stay? I'll stay. But he goes with you."

"Dean-"

Dean cuts his brother short. "No, Sam!" he says hoarsely. "He goes with you." He drops his voice to a less painful volume. "He goes with you, because if he can tell whenever one of those things are near, he'll be of more use to you. If you lose Jen," he adds, being careful not to glance in Jen's direction as he says her name, "then we're screwed. Cas can help prevent that from happening. Take him."

Sam may be an expert at arguing and semantics, but he can't refuse sound logic. And Dean is a logical guy. It's no surprise to the elder Winchester when his brother concedes defeat and drops the issue. Dean smiles to himself. _You can't win 'em all, Sammy. Sorry._

"Dean, quit gloating."

"What? Did I say something just now?"

"You're smiling that way."

_What way? _

"What way?"

Did he say that out loud or not? He's not sure. He's having a hard time distinguishing between what he merely thinks and what he actually says. It's hard to focus through the mugginess in his brain. And why is it so hot in here?

Sam sighs. "The way you always smile when you're mentally congratulating yourself."

Dean rolls his eyes and clears his throat before speaking again. "Well, if it's something I'm mentally doing, Sam, how is it your business? What are you, the Thought Police? Thinkpol?"

Sam is surprised, not to mention impressed. He can't remember ever seeing Dean read Orwell. "Newspeak, even?"

"I do know how to read, you know. I know that may come as a shocker to you." Dean raises a fist to his mouth and coughs. He can't resist the dig, but he instantly feels bad when he sees how chastised Sam looks. He's aware of Jen getting up off the couch beside him and taking his empty class. She returns moments later with it refilled. "Thanks," he says to her. Jen smiles back before she gives the brothers some space and joins Miles and Tate at the kitchen table.

Dean looks up at his brother. "Sorry, Sam," he tells him. "I'm being an ass." He's just so tired.

"No," Sam corrects him, sighing. "You're being a jerk."

"And you're a bitch."

Sam allows himself a small smile, sits down next to Dean. "How you holding up?"

Dean tries to laugh, but it comes out a wheeze. "Peachy." He turns an eye to his younger brother. "But you know what I can't wrap my head around? What the hell is my doppelganger doing, tipping Cas off like it did? If it's my opposite, what's its motive in this? If it's our job to save people, does that mean its objective is to kill people?" An unsettled look crosses Dean's face. "That's a weird thought. A reverse-hunter?"

"No, Dean," Sam says slowly, with a watchful eye on his brother. Dean keeps having moments where he just kind of fades out for a few seconds. He's pretty sure his brother is getting close to passing out. Maybe he will have to force Dean to lie down, after all._ Stubborn_. "I don't think it's trying to kill us." _But it definitely might have messed you up. _"I think it wanted to tell us something, but couldn't tell you directly because-"

"Because of the whole 'you see it, you die' part?" And he's back.

Sam blows out a slow breath. "Yeah, that's what I think."

Dean's face suddenly darkens. He leans forward and whispers roughly.

"Sam, Tate saw his doppelganger. And those other kids, it's probably safe to assume that they saw theirs, too. When they switched."

It's like Dean's been reading Sam's mind. The younger Winchester nods. "I know," he says in a quiet voice. "I've been thinking about that. I guess for now we'll just have to hope that when we get to whoever is behind all this, it will stop anything bad from happening to those kids." He pauses for a moment and then continues. "Assuming they're still alive, of course."

Dean nods but doesn't say anything, his expression emotionless and faraway, thinking. Sam knows Dean's been thinking about that possibility also.

Cas turns away from the window he's been silently peering out of. "That's why we kill the doppelgangers with this." He pulls out his knife, the same knife that he used back in the motel. He hands it to Sam, hilt first. Sam takes it and looks closely at the inscriptions etched into the handle and along the blade. "When a person and their doppelganger meet, it creates forces that ultimately lead to the person's demise. The doppelganger becomes a forecast of their death. The sigil cancels out any bad omens the doppelgangers may have brought with them and stops the prediction from coming true."

Dean rubs his temple, closes his eyes. "And where did you say you got that knife from again?"

"I didn't." Cas looks blankly at Dean.

The elder Winchester drops his hand, mildly exasperated. "I_ know_ you haven't, Cas. So spill."

The angel clears his throat and accepts the knife back from Sam. The younger Winchester is pretty sure the angel looks uncomfortable. Cas is silent for a few moments before he finally answers.

"Vatican City," he admits.

Dean snorts. "So you stole from the holiest place on Earth? That's ironic for an angel. What's it doing there, anyway?"

"I didn't steal it," Cas insists, "I am only borrowing it for a short time. There are many relics contained within the city's libraries and vaults that remain a mystery to historians, its absence won't be noticed."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "So how did you just happen to know about it?"

Cas frowns, apparently confused by the question. "Because I'm not a historian; I'm an angel, Dean."

Sometimes talking to Cas is like interrogating a rock, and even when the angel does have an answer it's cryptic and rarely helpful. Dean stares at Cas for a second, as though unsure if it's even worth pushing the conversation with the angel any further. Apparently it isn't worth it, because the elder Winchester once again turns and focuses on his brother. "And where's your double in all this, Sam? It's like Batman without his Robin."

Sam throws Dean a long-suffering expression. "Dean, you are so not Batman. Unless we're talking Adam West, maybe. But no way will I _ever_ let you even come close to comparing me with Robin."

Dean chuckles. Castiel, however, has no idea what the brothers are referencing. The angel just turns back to the window without a word.

* * *

The rest of the night is spent with some general awkwardness, but that is to be expected. Miles and the Winchester brothers have much to talk about, but most of it must remain unsaid in the presence of Jen and Tate. Sam can't help but wonder how much Miles knows about them, if he knows anything at all? He must still have some channels open, and just because he's not in the office doesn't mean he's not privy to the water cooler gossip. But the more Sam sits and talks with Miles, the more he is put at ease. It's clear that the ex-hunter is only interested in getting this ordeal over with and keeping the Burke siblings safe. After that, he has to figure out his next move.

"I'm dead, after all," Miles jokes. "I killed myself with my own car. This is going to be the second time I'm going to have to make a new identity and find a new life. And I really liked Miles Stanley, too. He had a way of keeping under the radar."

Sam glances over at Dean. His brother is already looking his way. It's plain as day to each brother what the other is thinking, because it's the same thing for both of them.

Miles saw his doppelganger, too. Only unlike Tate and the other kids, his doppelganger is dead. But that alone wouldn't be enough to stop the curse, would it? If anything, did its death seal the ex-hunter's fate? The younger Winchester resolves to watch the older man's back. All he can hope is that stopping whoever - or whatever – is controlling the doppelgangers will be enough to save Miles.

They take turns sitting guard by two large windows in the living room, keeping a watch out on the street below as a precaution. The only light in the apartment comes from the faint glow that is emitted from the television set, its volume turned low. Tate and Jen are soldiering it up well. They sit on the couch, subdued, and watch movies. Jen keeps the coffee going for the group and even pops some popcorn for Tate, who keeps looking over at his sister like she's about to disappear at any moment. Finally, Jen looks over from her side of the couch at her younger brother.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asks, poking him in the leg with a toe. "You're creeping me out."

Tate remains serious, his face pensive. "You saw Mom and Dad today?"

Jen's smile fades. "Yeah, I did," she tells her brother.

Tate nods faintly, swallowing. "How…how're they doing?"

"They're doing okay," her hand clasps her brother's knee gently, jostling his leg slightly. "I mean, yeah, they're worried. But they have each other to get themselves through this." She leans in and nudges him with her elbow. "Try not to worry, Tate. Mom and Dad will be fine."

"It's not just them I'm worried about," Tate says softly. "I don't want to lose you, Jen."

Dean looks up from his task of weapons cleaning at the kitchen table. The apartment isn't exactly spacious, so he can't help but overhear. He's about to tell Tate that no one is going to lose anybody, that no way are he and Sam going to let something like that happen, but Jen's already on it. She wraps her arm around her brother's shoulders in reassurance.

"Nothing bad is going to happen," she reassures him. "I promise. I won't be alone. Besides," she laughs. "Patterson can't be that tough if _you_ can kick his ass."

"Hey," Tate protests, returning his sister's laugh. Then he quiets, reflecting on what Jen has just told him. "That was the first time I've ever heard you call-"

Whatever Tate was about to say, he is cut off by an outburst of coughing from Dean. Sam cringes, exchanges a look with Castiel, and rises from his post by the window and walks over to his brother. He refills Dean's glass of water before pulling up a chair next to his brother.

"Dean, I could fry an egg on your head right now," he says in a low voice. "I can feel how high your temperature is from here. There's a spare bedroom down the hall and we've got a few hours before daylight. Why don't you go get some sleep?"

Dean flicks a glance at his brother before his eyes travel over the room, looking at Cas, Miles, and their charges on the couch. He looks back down at his disassembled gun and picks up his oil rag again. "Thanks, Samantha, but I'll pass."

Sam sighs in irritation and reaches out, snatches the rag right out of Dean's hands, earning a glare from his brother. "What the hell, Sam?" Dean says heatedly, but Sam will not be deterred.

"Dean, you told me to take Cas; I'm taking Cas. _Against_ my better judgment. So I would appreciate it if you could at least humor me. Go and try to get some sleep. I don't know how long we'll be gone when we leave and I'm more than a little worried about leaving you and Tate here with no one else. You're really sick."

"So you keep telling me," Dean remarks, wiping his forehead.

"And it keeps getting truer every time I say it," Sam counters. He leans forward. "Dean, you asked me to watch your back." He sighs. "That's what I'm doing. I'm concerned, man. Really concerned. So please, get some rest. Even if it's only to make me feel better."

Sam knows it's a dirty tactic, playing the do-it-for-your-little-brother card. But it's effective, at least. Dean considers for a long moment before he finally pushes away from the table.

"Fine," he grates out. "I'll go to bed, Sam."

Sam smiles faintly. _You can't win all the arguments all the time, Dean._

Dean is already halfway down the hall before he calls over his shoulder to his younger brother.

"Dude, who's gloating now? Quit smiling about it, already."

Sam can only shake his head and marvel at his brother's ability to know what he's thinking, even with his back turned.

* * *

The rest of the night passes with tense slowness, conversation kept at a minimum. Tate and Jen have both fallen asleep where they are sitting on the couch; not even the rising sun poking through the blinds disturbs them. It's been decided to let them sleep for as long as possible. Sam wishes that the same could be said for his brother, but Dean is up and about with the rest of them. His movements are halting and stiff and he keeps raising the crook of his elbow to his mouth, stifling the urge to cough in an effort to keep from disturbing the sleeping siblings. Sam and Miles are decently rested, each sleeping in shifts in the other bedroom while Cas keeps watch, the angel not requiring sleep. If Miles finds it strange that he doesn't even seem tired he doesn't vocalize it. Sam doesn't know if he should be relieved or worried about the lack of questions. Maybe it's because Miles is trying to remain as distanced as possible from the hunting world. It's not like he has any choice about participating with this particular one.

Or maybe it's because he knows Sam and Dean aren't exactly going to be making the cover of Hunters Illustrated anytime soon. They're not too popular with a lot of hunters these days. He could have gotten whiff of something. It wouldn't take much.

Sam gets his answer while Dean is in the shower. He, Miles, and Cas are sitting at the kitchen table, the younger Winchester and ex-hunter holding fresh mugs of coffee in their hands. A contemplative silence has filled the room for the last few minutes and Miles is the first to break it.

The older man clears his throat softly, lifts his eyes to meet Sam's squarely. "Sam, I know you and Dean have never had an easy go of things. What happened to your mom was pure tragedy, and I know John really put you guys through the gears growing up," he pauses, his eyes lose their focus for a moment as he reflects on something. He pulls himself out of it and gives a small, rueful shake of his head. "I know I wasn't any better with Riley. And look how well that turned out." He spreads his arms out, indicating both his apartment and their current circumstances at the same time. "I'm am old man living under a different name, a different life, like I'm squatting or something. I lost my wife Marcy in a car accident when Riley was just a baby. My son was all I had left. When I lost him, too, I ran away from hunting. But it found me anyway. And I know that chances are I may not survive this. I saw my doppelganger face to face and then I ran it over for good measure. I don't know of any way to stop the omen from happening besides that knife of yours but we have nothing to stab, which means I've probably signed my own death warrant."

"We'll think of something," Sam objects. "There's still time, Miles."

Miles chuckles and shrugs. "I'm not going to lie, that would be nice. But if we can keep those two safe," he adds, indicating Tate and Jen, still sleeping on the couch, "and find those other kids I'll still consider it a fair trade." His voice grows heavy, his face weary. "I have a lot of things to atone for, Sam. So if it's my time, it's my time. End of story. I don't want either you or your brother sticking your neck out for my sake." His voice gentles. "And Sam, I know that you guys don't have a lot of people in your corner right now, but I don't care about any of that." He nods to Cas briefly. "And I have no idea who Castiel is. I can tell he's no hunter, but I know all I need to: he's a friend of yours. That makes him a friend of mine."

Sam doesn't know what to say in response. He thinks of several things, but they still don't seem to be able to communicate what he wants to tell the man sitting in front of him. He wants to tell Miles that he's a good person, which he can tell just by looking at the ex-hunter. He wants to tell him that Riley wouldn't blame him for his death. It's taken Sam a long time to reconcile himself with this, but when you are a hunter with children the best thing you could do for your kid is _not _to keep him in the dark about what's out there. If Riley had made it to adulthood, he would have grown into a fine hunter, but unfortunately hunting is an occupation with a short life expectancy. But that doesn't mean life as a civilian isn't without its dangers, too. Miles did the best he could for his son, just as John Winchester had. Sam is overcome with the urge to ask Miles to tell him everything he remembers about Dad, everything he remembers about their hunts together. He feels that familiar ache in his heart again. Instead, he finds the words he's been struggling for.

"Miles, when this is over we'll give you a hunter's burial."

Miles smiles warmly, genuinely. His eyes brim with unshed tears.

"Thank you, Sam."

* * *

"Sam," Dean calls.

Sam turns in time to catch the Impala's keys that Dean has tossed at his brother. Miles, Jen, and Cas have already filed out into the hallway. Sam looks quizzically at his brother. "Really?" he says. "Just like that? I don't even have to ask?"

Dean coughs into his elbow before he responds.

"Dude, please. What does Jen drive?"

"A Civic."

"Exactly. Take the Impala or she'll be insulted. And Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful. Don't make me have to rescue your ass."

Sam pauses, his hand on the doorknob. He doesn't know who's more worried, himself or Dean. "You, too, Dean."

He closes the door, promises himself it's not the last time he'll ever see his brother.

* * *

Dean tries to make himself not feel like a babysitter, but quite frankly it takes too much energy. He sits by the window and tries not to shiver. He fails miserably at that, even.

Tate looks over. "Want a blanket?"

Dean tries not to scowl at the teen's Sam-like concern. "No, I'm good."

"How about a movie?"

Dean coughs, nods. "Sure, if you like. You choose." He's not interested in much of anything, but if it keeps the conversation to a minimum he'll be happy. Talking just makes his throat hurt worse than it already does. He's trying his best not to look as sick as he feels. He needs to keep it together, in case something happens, and to keep it together he needs to be doing something. That something has been maintaining a lookout from one of the living room windows. That, and trying not to cough a lung out every thirty seconds are his primary objectives. Even those relatively small tasks are becoming too much for him. He can't believe he's admitting this (even to himself), but he's almost glad he stayed behind. He can't remember the last time he felt this awful. His chest is beyond painful, and his lungs are so constricted he can't even remember what a deep breath feels like. He wonders if he'll know the moment Sam and the others get the fugly or whatever is behind this hunt because he'll suddenly start feeling better.

_Yeah, because it's always that simple with you, Dean. Soon, you'll be all better, because your brother saved your ass. Again. Why should he even bother, if you're dead inside? Would it really matter, in the end?_

He almost can't bring himself to dare to believe that it would.

Tate looks over the collection of DVDs already piled on the floor near the television. "Papillon…The Deer Hunter…Midnight Cowboy," he looks up at Dean. "How about Little Big Man?"

Dean cocks an amused eyebrow. "You're into the classics?"

Tate returns the look. "You were expecting Twilight?"

"Maybe."

"I'm not a girl, for one," Tate responds. He pops in the movie and they settle into amicable silence. Dean chuckles and goes back to keeping an eye out the window. For his part, Tate doesn't exactly seem to be giving the movie too much attention. He looks lost in his own thoughts, frowning.

After a while, Dean speaks up. "Tate," he says, and his voice cracks so bad it doesn't even come out as a word. Dean clears his throat and tries again. "Tate, you're sister's going to be okay. They know what they're doing; nothing is going to happen to her. And you're safe here. Just keep wearing that thing around your neck and I'll do the rest. Just take it easy."

Tate only looks like he's partially convinced, but he tries to look confident, anyway. "Right," he says, then his face darkens with worry again. "I guess I'm kind of thinking about Mom and Dad, too. I don't know what I'm going to tell them when this is all over and I can go back home. And my girlfriend is going to kill me."

Dean holds up his hands. "Sorry, man. Can't help you with that department. But whatever you come up with, I suggest it be something at least halfway convincing, like an underage bender and then you woke up in California or something." He grins again. "Oh, you are so grounded."

Tate returns the grin. "I guess you're right. They can't stay mad forever, right?" He looks back to the television for a second before he speaks again. "On the bright side, maybe this will end up bringing the family closer together."

"Yeah? You guys fight a lot?"

Tate shakes his head. "No, not exactly. It's just that Jen doesn't really get along with Dad so well. She's my half-sister; her real dad died when she was a baby. I guess she kind of held it against Mom that she remarried. She only calls Dad by his name and nothing else. I think last night was the first time I ever heard her say the word 'Dad.' " He shrugs. "It was just nice to hear her call him that, you know?"

The blood is suddenly pounding in Dean's veins. He stares at Tate blankly for a moment, the adrenalin starting to flood his system. His mind is racing.

_You've been talking to my parents?_

_I just want you to leave my family alone…_

_Try not to worry, Tate. Mom and Dad will be fine._

Dean shoots up out of his seat, heading for the door. Tate scrambles after him, caught by surprise. "Dean, what are you doing?"

Dean doesn't answer. "Where's your sister's car parked?" he asks instead.

* * *

It takes Dean all of five seconds to break into Jen's car, Tate standing speechless beside him. Once in the car, Dean tears through it madly, searching under the seats, the glove compartment. He lifts up the driver's side floor mat and instantly goes still.

"Son of a bitch," he swears softly, picking something up. He turns to Tate. "Get in the car. We have to go. Now." He opens his hand and shows Tate.

Dean is holding another token in his hand.

* * *

Sam, Miles, and Castiel watch in silence from their vantage point as Jen heads into Robert Fulton. Sam glances over at the ex-hunter, who is wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his features. He looks worried.

"Sam, we're doing the right thing, aren't we? Sending her in there like this."

Sam takes a deep breath and nods, goes back to watching Jen as she opens the doors and slips inside the school.

"We are, Miles. There's no other way."

He hopes to God he's right.

* * *

Jen walks down the hall, head high. She doesn't meet any of the inquisitive stares from the students in the halls. Most of them know that she's the sister of the kid who's gone missing. She leaves them whispering in her wake. They're of no consequence, anyway. At least, not yet.

She moves down the hallway with deliberate strides. Turns down towards where Patterson's office is located. She can hear voices on the other side of the door and doesn't bother with knocking. She walks right in and closes the door behind her firmly, meeting Patterson's dispassionate stare. There is someone sitting with Patterson, and Jen turns and speaks directly to that person.

"I know where the boy is hiding," she tells the figure without preamble. Then she smiles.

"I also have the Winchesters."

* * *

A/N: If you have the time, I would love it if you reviewed!


	9. Finders Keepers

I would just like to apologize right here and now for the long wait. I hope you're still with me! I am a huge loser and a slacker and I waited until the end of my semester to tackle my research papers. And then it was finals. And that brings us to now. So once again, I'm really, really sorry. I'll try not to do that again. Also, I realize I said that this would be the last chapter, and I hope no one minds too much but that has to change. Otherwise, this chapter would have been waaay to long. Indeed. But the last bit will be up soon. Thank so much to all who have shown their support. It means so much to me and this has been just a terrific experience. I hope to see you around again with the next story!

On a completely unrelated note - I've got my degree now! Wheeeee!

Disclaimer: They are still not mine.

* * *

Dean's not telling him much, but Tate doesn't need the confirmation. He's not stupid; he knows that they –whoever they are- have Jen. The second that Dean produced the coin-thing out from her car he knew what the hunter was telling him. What he didn't understand was _when_ it happened. He feels like the wheels of his brain are spinning in sand or something, because he's having a hard time coming to grips with the fact that it was _not_ his sister back there. He can't move himself past that need to know when she was taken. He can't accept that she's just _gone_, has been gone for some time and he didn't have the first clue. Lost in his thoughts, he stares out the window of the Civic morosely until Dean half turns his head and he feels the hunter's eyes on him. He's been trying to reach Sam or Cas on his cell, but there's been no answer so far. A strange expression crosses the hunter's face as he looks at Tate. It's not just sympathy, either. He looks too weary for that. He looks…understanding?

"When did they take her?" the hunter thumbs sweat out of his eyes and voices the question Tate can't bring himself to ask. Dean saying it makes everything suddenly more real. This is actually happening; none of this shit is just a bad dream. "My best guess? Really crappy timing. I don't know why this didn't occur to me before," he pauses to pinch between his eyes. "But if Cas can sense them, then they can probably sense him, too. That's probably how my doppelganger found him in the first place, back in Duluth. When it warned him about…this. He was with us at the motel before Jen showed up and they just zeroed right in," Dean grimaces, coughs heavily. "And then we brought it back here. So yeah, yesterday was a good day."

Tate nods mutely. The wheels in his head are turning at a more reasonable rate, and his brain doesn't feel like it's spinning quite so bad anymore. For some reason, hearing Dean break it down makes him feel calmer. That, and the gun he saw poking out of the waistline of the hunter's jeans when he leaned forward to cough. Yeah. The gun definitely helps.

"I'm sorry, Tate. We'll get her back. We will." Dean raises his cell to his ear one more time before he flips it shut and throws it down on the seat with disgust. "Damn it, Sam," he growls and then dissolves into a round of chest-heaving coughs. Tate winces at how wet and painful it sounds and tentatively puts his hand on Dean's back as he curls forward. He can feel the force of the fit and the tremors it causes even as the hunter tries to drag in air. There is an insane amount of heat pouring off him. Tate has never seen someone as sick as this and still be on their feet. After a long, long time the fit slowly eases off, the sawing sound of his breathing tapering off into a more controlled wheeze. But it's still terrible. And is he starting to look blue?

Dean straightens, sitting up again. He passes a hand over his mouth and looks at Tate, embarrassed.

"Sorry," he mutters.

Tate's eyes widen, disbelieving. "You're apologizing for being sick? You can't help that you were whammied by your doppelganger."

Dean smiles faintly and chuckles weakly in his throat. His hand has moved from his mouth and is now rubbing his forehead. "Whammied or not, we still gotta finish this. We're kind of all there is at the moment, as far as the cavalry goes." He drops his hand and fixes Tate with a stern look. "I need to know that you can keep it together, dude. I know this really sucks and it's scary as hell but you and I both have people depending on us. So no wimping out on me, here."

And then the scariest words Tate's ever heard.

"You with me?"

Tate doesn't let himself hesitate for one instant. Otherwise, he might actually start to really _think _about what he's getting himself into. What he wouldn't do to have things go back to normal again. Back to scrambled eggs every morning, back to math quizzes, sneaking out at night to meet Tara, sneaking back _in_ after. Back to basketball, to Greg Tavish's basement where his folks let them smoke weed. Back to hanging out with Jen at her place, watching movies and drinking beer that she booted for.

Jen. He keeps his sister's image held firmly in his mind. His sister, who volunteered to use herself as a lure in the first place. And Tate didn't want her to leave. He didn't want her to go to the hotel after the Winchesters by herself, but she went anyway so he obviously couldn't have kicked up _that _much of a fuss. And look how well that worked out for Jen. Guilt stabs him swiftly in the gut. He looks at Dean, who is obviously waiting for him to say something. Sick as he is, there is something about the guy that gives Tate a surge of confidence. The hunter practically oozes this sense of purpose, of determination. Like there's only one direction to take, and he sure as hell isn't going back the way he came. Tate steels himself, or at least tries to look like he's steely. Or at the _very_ least, like he's not scared shitless. He'd settle for just that, even.

Deep breath. "I'm with you, Dean."

* * *

Sam can't stop berating himself. This has got to be one of the most blatant traps he's ever walked into. Ever.

And at the worst possible time, too.

It wasn't long before Jen came running back out to the Impala, tearing out through the doors of the school like a mad woman.

"Sam-" Miles blurted out, but it was unnecessary. Sam was already turning the key in the ignition and Castiel had thrown open the back passenger door closest Jen, who dove in the car.

"Go-go-GO!" she yelled. Sam went. The Impala screeched out of the parking lot and took off down the road.

"What happened?" He simultaneously tried to crane his neck around to look at Jen while keeping one eye on the road. She was white and panting heavily, eyes huge.

"I know…know where-" she held up a finger, closing her eyes briefly while she caught her breath. "I know where they're keeping the students. I overheard them talking."

"Them?" Castiel queried.

"Patterson and someone else. I don't know who, didn't see." Jen leaned forward, put her hand on Sam's shoulder. "You need to drive fast." She gave him directions, and he nodded and white knuckled the steering wheel.

Of course he wanted save the kids. That's obvious. But he was also acutely aware that Dean's been compromised, probably severely. If he doesn't wrap this up, and soon, there's no telling what the consequences of any further delay would be for his brother. In the back of his mind Sam's thinking of worst-case scenarios.

What if they can't get the bad guy?

What if they get the bad guy, but it doesn't help Dean's condition?

What if they get the bad guy, but it doesn't help Dean's condition, and the doctors can't fix it because the cause of the illness is supernatural?

He started thinking about spells, incantations, charms, hexbags. Calling Bobby.

_Hang in there, Dean. Just a little longer._

The minutes ticked by. Eventually, they came to an industrial part of the city. Sam reached into his jacket pocket, grabbed his cell phone with the intent of calling his brother to give an update, but then Jen's voice filled his ear. She leaned forward into the front seat, squinting out the windows. Pointed over his shoulder.

"There. Turn there."

Sam left his phone in his pocket and withdrew his hand, turning down the street Jen indicated. At its end, they encountered a huge property, fenced off but with the gate still open.

Sam looked at Jen, who just stared ahead. But her hand on his shoulder tightened incrementally, and Sam drove through the gate.

The lot's huge. It had to be twice the size of Bobby's salvage yard. It also had a junkyard and rows of semi trucks parked in front of a large garage.

"It must be a rig repair shop," Miles commented, looking around as they come to a halt. "Good location to keep hostages. Secluded, loud machinery around to drown out any screams, not especially accessible by the public. Good place to hide-" he cut himself short, cleared his throat.

"To hide the bodies?" Jen finished his thought.

Miles didn't answer. There wasn't any need.

Sam looked into the rearview mirror and caught Castiel's eye. The angel didn't blink, didn't waver. Just sat silent and ready, face grim. The hunter turned to Miles. "You brought a gun, yeah?" Miles nodded, jaw set, and next the younger Winchester faced Jen, who looked frightened but resolved. He reached down and pulled up the leg of his jeans, withdrew his knife. He pushed it into her hands.

"I want you to keep this on you," he told her. "I'm going to do everything I can to make sure that you won't have to use it."

She looked at him wordlessly before looking down at the blade. She swallowed and wrapped her fingers tightly around the hilt. Took a shaky breath.

"Okay," she said.

Looking back, Sam can't believe he fell for it. Should have followed my gut from the start.

The door was locked, of course. And of course it didn't matter. Sam's always been the better one at picking locks, but he was pretty sure he'd beaten his personal best when it came to this one. Even though there wasn't a single light turned on inside the building, sufficient daylight was coming in through the windows overhead near the high ceiling, making it easy to pick out their surroundings, the scattered equipment and trucks up on the lifts, partially gutted with engine parts organized beneath them on the ground.

Miles cast around, puzzled. "Strange that an industrial mechanic shop would be closed during a weekday when it obviously has a lot of work on the go."

Sam was about to open his mouth to agree when Cas piped up.

"I don't think it was closed by the owner's choice." The angel was at the back, peering through a window. Sam and Miles came over to look for themselves. At first it was hard to make anything out in the half-light of the room behind the glass, but it had appeared to be an office. In the corner there were several bodies piled up on top of each other, bloodied and lifeless. They didn't look too fresh.

"My god," Miles murmured, horrified.

Sam reached into his jacket again. He needed to call Dean and tell him what's going on. His phone was in his hand when out of the corner of his eye he saw Castiel stiffen, whirling around. His face was blank with surprise. Sam followed suit, turning to see what had the angel so spooked.

Jen was standing in the middle of the garage, facing them. All the anxiety seemed to have left her. She looked relaxed, jovial even.

Sam's eye travelled down, stomach clenched into a frozen ball.

She'd removed the spell bag from around her neck. With a slow smile, she dangled it from her fingers by her side. Casually, she flicked it away from her body.

"That's not Jen," Cas breathed. "The spell bag. I had no idea."

Sam had just enough to time to let everything fall into place. In that moment, it all clicked and he saw the series of events that brought them to this: Jen follows them to the motel and the doppelgangers were already there; they take Jen, doppelganger-Jen goes with Sam, Dean, and Cas, pooch screwed, the end.

Now, staring at the doppelganger, he can't believe he walked straight into a trap, that he let himself be so vulnerable. Not now. Not at the worst possible time, with the Apocalypse around the corner and Dean…

His cell phones buzzes in his hand. He doesn't even need to glance at the caller ID.

_Dean._

"Winchester," a voice says from the open door they had come through. Sam isn't surprised to see that it's Patterson's doppelganger. It enters the shop and slams the door shut. Sam recognizes a familiar design that's been smeared on the wood. He knows that's blood dripping off Patterson's palm and his stomach drops in apprehension. Beside him, Cas tenses and throws his hands up with a wordless shout, also knowing what's coming next. After that, Sam's last thought is whether those are the bodies of the kids from James Fulton.

Then pain explodes in the back of his head and everything that he sees and hears is blanketed in inky black even as the repair shop is filled with a blinding whiteness.

* * *

Dean had been right about laying low and waiting for the doppelgangers to come to them. He didn't have any problems hotwiring the Civic and they'd moved the car to as inconspicuous a spot as they could find and still keep the building in plain sight. At his command, Tate had climbed into the backseat where he could be at least partly obscured by the tinted windows. When two men in suits arrived and started poking around the building, Dean grunted in amusement.

"Always suits," he'd muttered to himself, and Tate wasn't sure if Dean even meant for him to hear. "It doesn't matter who the douche bag is. They're in a suit."

Dean's not doing very well. Not at all. So when the suits slipped inside the building, catching the door after a tenant left, Tate was suddenly concerned when he saw what the hunter meant to do. Dean's halfway out the car before Tate could stop him by grabbing his arm. The guy was burning up.

"Dean, man. Don't. Don't follow them."

Dean shook his arm free and glared. "I must be losing my mind," he'd said. "Because it just sounded like you said to let our one chance of getting your sister and everyone back get away."

"No, Dean. They'll have to come back out, right?" Tate had felt like he was pleading to a deaf man. "Why follow them in and back out? Stay here and wait for them."

Dean had grudgingly conceded. "You and Sam," he had said, coughing. "Kind of alike. Can't believe I listen to either of you." But he had stayed.

For five minutes.

"I waited, okay?" He opened the car door. "Stay back there. Stay down," was his final order before shutting the door. He made his cautious way to the building.

That was ten minutes ago. Tate's worried.

As he huddles in the back seat, risking frequent looks towards the apartment, he wonders at what point he should get out of the Civic and make his own way in there. If they have Dean, too, then he may as well just get this over with and give himself up. At least he might get to see his sister again.

_Five more minutes. Dean's got five more minutes._

He's pulled out of his thoughts by a knock on the passenger window, startling him. Dean is standing there. He hadn't even seen him come up. Dean stares at him for a second, makes a motion for Tate to crack the window. Tate obliges him, confused. "What are you doing?" he asks, voice low. He glances back at the building. "Where are they? Why don't you get in the car?"

Then Tate does a double take, studies Dean closer. There's something…different. Then it comes to him: his breathing isn't wheezy and hoarse. He doesn't even look sick anymore. Tate's stomach suddenly clenches in understanding, and his chest gets weirdly tight. When he talks, he has to talk around the lump in his throat. It's a miracle he doesn't squeak.

"You…you're not Dean, are you?" His voice quakes a little; he can't help it.

The doppelganger shakes its head. "No," it tells Tate and bends down close to the window. There is no malice in the movement but still the teen can't help but shrink back a little. "I'm not Dean. But I want you to give him something for me."

* * *

_ I am having a sternly worded conversation with Linda about this. _

Dean can't believe how winded he is after only two flights of stairs, and he finds himself wishing fondly for an operational elevator in the building. With a baleful look upward at the remaining five levels he has yet to climb, the hunter puts one foot in front of the other and tries his hardest not to fall flat on his face. He manages to make it to the fourth flight before he doubles over and retches as quietly as he can. He nearly chokes to death as he does. It's hard enough to get air into his lungs as it is, never mind being hunched over and emptying his stomach as he struggles to breathe, fights to keep conscious. When he's done he scrubs the back of his forearm across his mouth, coughing and gasping, the other hand pressed against the wall to keep him from falling over. Christ, he's burning hot. And he's so damn thirsty. Little sparks of light shoot through his vision, his brain flickers and stutters. He feels hyper-aware and half asleep at the same time. It leaves him utterly disoriented and confused.

Sammy. Sammy's…upstairs? That's why he's got to hurry, right? Because he has to save Sammy. That's what it's always been about, and he'll never be done. He'll always be running after him, saving him.

_You can't win, and you know it. But you just keep fighting, just keep going through the motions._

Oh, good. There's a recurring happy thought. That was –wait, what was he just thinking about? Stairs. He has to climb these friggin' stairs. And he's telling Linda to get the goddamned elevator fixed.

Somewhere in the back of his mind Dean knows he's in and out of it, but he can't grab onto a thought long enough to make any sense out of it. He bumps into the wall a couple of times, wavering unsteadily. He snorts at himself, vaguely aware that it must look like he's drunk. Good thing there's no one here to see. Cas, Sam, Jen, they're gone. Taken. Tate's in the car. He's good. Safe. Gotta find out where the doppelgangers have taken everyone. Gotta get Sammy. Stop the Apocalypse.

Right.

Whatever kind of thoughts Dean has jabbering in his skull, head spinning, they keep him moving. He blinks, and the fog that had been dogging him for the last few minutes dissipates. He's surprised himself by arriving at the seventh floor without his knowing; the hallway stretches out before him. He shuffles forward soundlessly, body tense. Thankfully the adrenalin starts to flow and it helps clear his head, the loud thrum of his heartbeat in his ears the only indication that he could be close to passing out.

As he strains to listen, the hunter can hear the sounds of living on the other side of the doors of the apartments he passes. As he gets closer to Miles' apartment, however, there isn't the faintest stir. The lock's been picked, though, and Dean puts a palm on the door, cautiously pushes it open enough for him to slip through, pulling his gun out from the waist of his jeans. He silently ghosts down the hall in Miles' apartment, heart hammering in his chest. Sweat trickles down the back of his neck and breaks out across his face, the urge to cough building again. It's all the older Winchester can do to keep himself quiet.

He needn't have worried. As he comes into the living room, he can see that someone has beaten him to the punch. The two suits in question are crumpled on the floor, quite dead. Their throats have been efficiently sliced and there are no signs of struggle. And this happened recently. The blood is still pooling. Dean moves on, quickly checking the rest of the apartment, and comes up empty-handed. Whoever did this obviously got the drop on them and got it done quickly. Even as Dean is processing this he's already out the door without a second glance at the bodies.

_Tate._

Oh, crap. The kid was right. He shouldn't have come up here.

Well, this just completely blows.

* * *

The sense of relief that Dean feels as he approaches the Civic is so complete that he almost collapses right there in the street. Tate is there in the backseat, just as he'd left him. Tate's wide-eyed and staring, though, and it's enough to raise the hair on the back of the hunter's neck in response.

"What?" he demands as he throws the door open, trying to collapse in a controlled manner as he falls into the driver seat. "You look like you saw a ghost. And I would know."

Tate doesn't look amused. "How do I know you're you?"

Dean frowns. "I say again: what?" He turns his head suddenly, coughing into the crook of his elbow until his face turns bright red from the effort.

Tate relaxes slightly, then hunches forward in commiseration. "That's how," he mutters. He paws around the back seat where he's still sitting and then leans forward and goes through the glove box in the front. He doesn't find water, but his fingers brush on a travel size container of Tylenol. He brandishes it triumphantly to Dean, who eyes it as though he's not sure it's really there or if it's a trick of the light. After a moment he takes it and worries at the childproof cap, hands shaking. Tate goggles for a second, coming to the realization that he's not just really sick. He's really, really, seriously fucking_ ill_.

"Um," Tate makes a vague motion in the direction of his face, indicating his mouth area. "Your lips are getting blue. And your fingernails," he gestures at Dean, points at his hands even as he continues to fight with the Tylenol. And it's true; the nail beds are also discoloured. The teen sighs and swipes the container out of the hunter's hands, who grunts in disapproval.

Tate opens the lid and shakes out a couple pills, passes them over. Dean swallows them without argument. He can't help himself, but Tate feels a little deflated. Not to say that he was having such a swell day to begin with, but now the gravity of the situation is starting to sink into him. Dean only has so much steam left. And the guy's been putting forth a monumental effort already. One look is all it takes to confirm it. He looks like absolute crap. He's pale and flushed, sweaty and shivery. When he breathes he sounds like a punctured accordion, and when he coughs it sounds like his lungs are turning themselves inside out. In glue. Even as he sits next to him, Tate can feel the heat of the fever that is pouring off of him. And then there are the signs of oxygen deprivation. Suddenly, he realizes that he hasn't asked Dean one very important question. He sits up abruptly, ramrod straight. "What happened in there, anyway?" he asks the hunter. "Did you find them?"

Dean's face darkens. "I did, and I wasn't the only one, apparently." A hand passes over his face, rubbing at his forehead briefly before he continues. "They're dead; someone caught them by surprise," he looks at Tate expectantly. "You gonna tell me what happened to you while I was gone anytime soon?"

Tate licks his lips, blanching slightly. "I saw you," he says. "Or your doppelganger, I mean. It-it just came right up to me, out of nowhere."

"Come again?" Dean asks. "My doppelganger…it was here?" That explains the dead bodies, anyway. Although he still doesn't understand _why_ he's got a behind the scenes helper. He cranes his head around. "Where'd it go?"

Tate spreads his hands. "No clue. It just appeared and it gave me a message for you. Then it left. It told me to tell you-" he falters, voice dropping. Dean waits impatiently for him to resume, eyebrow cocked.

"And?" the hunter prompts. "It told you to tell me what?"

Tate runs a hand through his hair in such a Sam-like gesture that Dean feels the ball in the pit of his stomach tighten. _You better be okay, Sam._

When Tate speaks up again, his voice is hesitant. "It gave me these," he reaches under the seat again, pulls something out and hands it to Dean. It's a knife with a short blade. Tied to the hilt is a business card with the name "Donnie's Repair Shop," an address imprinted on it. "It said the knife would work…like the angel's?" The question is clear in Tate's voice as he says it. Dean flicks a quick look up at Tate, sees the confusion in his eyes and quickly looks away again. _Crap._

"It said we'll find everyone we're looking for there, but we need to hurry before more doppelgangers come, before they summon more." Tate pauses, unsure. "Um, what did it mean, `angel?' He's talking about Castiel, isn't he? Like, halos and harps kind of angel?"

Dean tucks the knife beside his gun in the waist of jeans and starts the Civic up. "Sorry, kiddo, but angels aren't at all what you'd expect. They're all pretty much dicks and you can't trust the bastards. Well, except for Cas. He's not a dick so much as he's, well. He's Cas." Looking over at Tate, he can see he's completely lost. "I'll explain it to you," he tells the kid as he pulls into traffic. And why not give him a tutorial, anyway? The kid's already in this up to his eyeballs. May as well give him the full experience.

"And all we get is a toothpick?" He sighs tiredly and checks one last time to make sure the knife is secure. It's pathetically small.

All Tate can do is shrug. "It said that the knife would take care of the doppelgangers and the one behind all of this."

"Still, it couldn't have given you a gun with doppelganger-killing bullets?" the hunter asks ruefully.

"Sorry," Tate responds, trying for levity. "I guess the store was fresh out."

Dean gives a wry chuckle. "Story of my friggin' life." But the laugh breaks into a cough and a ragged fit of hacking and gasping ensues. Tate winces. Dean notices.

"Don't worry," he tells the teen. "It's only as bad as it sounds."

Tate rolls his eyes. "Well, that's a relief." Not that he doesn't appreciate Dean's attempts at humor, but it's no secret between them that he can only go for so much longer.

Tate sighs and hunkers down into the seat a little. Thinks of his sister.

* * *

Sam's been knocked unconscious enough times in the past. He knows the process of waking up. The first thing to come back is touch.

Take right now, for starters. He doesn't remember exactly what happened yet, but he already knows it's not good. He can feel that his arms are tied behind his back, and that the floor beneath him is cold cement. The circulation in his left wrist is cut off and his arm is tingling. His ankles are also bound tightly. Behind his right ear there is a sharp pain and a damp spot that is starting to dry; his hair feels gummy and a little crunchy as the blood dries.

Then it's smell that returns. Oil, grease, metal: industrial smells.

The garage. They're in the garage.

Crap. _Jen._

It all comes rushing back in that moment, and Sam's eyes fly open. Miles is beside him, also bound in the same fashion. He's sitting propped against the wall, still out, head drooping towards his chest. The younger Winchester turns his head, looks around. They're in the corner of the huge garage, the view of the front door obscured by machinery and lifts. Sam's eyes stray back to the office door where the bodies are. Above the door is the business sign and emblem, _Donnie's Repair_, with a cherry red semi truck beneath the lettering, shooting flames from under the wheels and belching smoke from its outtake. His eyes fall on a bloody handprint on the door.

"That's Donnie's," a voice sounds. Jen, or rather, her doppelganger. It walks into plain sight, from behind a lift. It's referring to the blood on the door. "He wasn't especially cooperative."

Sam grunts, slowly eases himself up to a sitting position. He slumps against the wall under Jen's watchful eye. Beside him, Miles is starting to come around, groaning softly under his breath. An eyelid flickers. The younger man nods towards the door. "And the others in there? Who are they?'

Jen smiles knowingly and steps closer, leaning against a gutted truck. She's twirling Castiel's knife in a casual manner that is anything but.

"They're no one of concern to you," she says coolly.

"I find dead bodies always a little concerning," Sam replies evenly, matching her tone. "Especially if they've been murdered by a monster."

The Jen-creature laughs, scratches her temple with the point of the knife. She stands up and starts to slowly pace back and forth as she talks.

"That's funny, Sam. Especially coming from you. Real good stuff."

Sam growls in frustration and strains against his bindings. He tries to twist his wrists to encourage some slack in the rope, but to no avail. He hears a door open from the far side of the garage, and the sound of encroaching footsteps. A moment later he is met with the sight of Patterson's doppelganger, back from wherever the hell he was while Sam was unconscious. It comes over and joins Jen, who nods.

"Thanks for that," Sam spits at Patterson.

Patterson shrugs indifferently. "Your friend killed some of our own back at that motel. It was the least I could do."

"You'll be joining them soon enough," Miles growls, lifting his head. His head is also bleeding, and it's dripping into one of his eyes. He doesn't seem to notice. He looks around, moving stiffly. "Where's Cas?"

Sam sighs. "They sent him away."

"Away?" the older man frowns, not understanding.

"Yes, away," Jen agrees. "Nice of him to leave me this, though." She looks down at the knife she's been idly playing with. She lifts an eyebrow at Sam. "That's quite the resourceful angel you've got perched on your shoulder. I can only imagine where he got this." She mock-shudders. "No thanks."

Patterson crosses his arms, regarding Sam dispassionately.

"So this is the great Sam Winchester? I have to say, I'm not impressed. I thought that the vessel of Lucifer would have been…more than this." He shakes his head. "I don't know what he sees in you, kid. But all the same, he's going to be happy to see you. This might put his five year plan ahead of schedule."

Sam's blood begins to boil, heart hammering wildly in his ribcage. He refuses to look in Miles' direction, and neither does he let his voice waver. He's not going to give them the pleasure of seeing him squirm. He narrows his eyes. "And just how do you know so much about me?"

"Sam," Jen says, exasperated. "Why, you're the talk of the town, so to speak. You're our ticket out of the shadows, after all." She resumes her slow pacing as she talks, gesturing with the knife vaguely as she talks, as though she's forgotten she's holding it. "I don't think you get how many people are rooting for you. You're like our very own dark horse." She flashes Sam a grin. "You've definitely got my vote. And when you say yes-"

"That's never going to happen," Sam growls. He tries to be as surreptitious as possible as he flexes his wrists, working the ropes. Jen's doppelganger isn't affected in the least by his little outburst.

"When you say yes," she repeats calmly, "the real fun can begin. But this is pretty entertaining, too." She holds her arms out, indicating everyone in the room.

"And just exactly what kind of fun do you call this?" Sam queries. "What are you getting out of it?"

Patterson snorts in derision and shakes his head, but doesn't say anything. Jen is clearly the one who will be doing the talking around here.

"I already told you," she tells Sam, a little impatiently. "You know, it's not such a great existence, being what we are: someone's walking, talking double and death omen. It's surprisingly not as fun as it sounds. This way, we get to come out of hiding. We get to live our lives, or _their _lives, I guess."

"And why the school? Why kids?" Miles' voice is razor sharp. Sam can see a muscle bunching in the older man's jaw.

Jen turns to Miles, feigning sympathy.

"Poor Miles, I understand that this must all be hard for you. Brings back memories, does it? Like losing Riley all over again?" She cocks her head. "He and Tate must be just about the same age before he died," she muses. "I wonder if it will feel like your son again when we kill the boy right in front of you."

"When _I _kill the boy," Patterson interjects. "That distinct pleasure is mine. I owe the punk for this." He points to the new scar on his face.

"Looks good on you," Sam mutters, leaning back and closing his eyes briefly. His head is pounding in relentless time with his heart.

Jen continues smoothly, unperturbed. "Why take the kids? Because they're teenagers, and a little erratic behavior can be so easily accounted for. Just a bad case of hormones. And the school was perfect. We already had an in, a very important one."

"An in?" Sam asks, getting ready to not like the answer he will receive. Jen opens her mouth to respond but is cut off by the sound of a switch being thrown. Ballast by ballast, the garage is suddenly thrown into artificial light. Neither Jen nor Patterson look concerned, however, and soon footsteps reverberate softly in the garage.

"What now?" Miles grumbles, shifting. Sam grimaces in agreement, pretends not to notice how the older man is blinking back tears brought on by the mention of his dead son's name.

They don't have to wait long to get an answer. Jen's doppelganger steps to the side, in deference. And Sam feels himself gape a little when he sees who comes around the corner, the person responsible for this whole shit show.

Alice, the receptionist at James Fulton, smiles softly and waves in greeting.

"Hello, Sam. Hello, Miles. Good to see you again."

* * *

_Next time, Sam takes the lame car. What was I even thinking?_

Dean misses the Impala intensely as he negotiates Seattle traffic. He doesn't feel like he's driving so much as zipping around, flitting between cars and puttering at red lights in a car that sounds like a glorified golf cart. It's humiliating. Luckily, he's too busy hacking up a lung to dwell on it overly.

"Are you okay? I mean, are you going to be okay?"

The hunter glances over at Tate, who is looking at him closely.

Dean gives the kid a grin, but it's flimsy and stretched thin. "I'll keep," he says. "What about you? You going to be okay?"

Tate nods, returning the same weak smile. "Yeah, I'm good. I'll be good."'

_Damn straight._ Dean has no intention of letting the kid out of his sight. Not for one second. He doesn't know quite yet how he's going to manage it, but frankly he doesn't care. He's not going to let anything happen to Tate, or anyone else for that matter.

"We're getting them back," he says resolutely to the teen, knowing he's repeating himself. "The other kids, too. I don't want you to worry about them, okay?" He coughs raggedly, winded.

"It's not just them," Tate says firmly, leaning forward. He feels slightly ridiculous sitting in the backseat, but Dean won't have it any other way. "I'm worried about you, too. Don't blow this off so much, Dean. You need a doctor."

Dean briefly looks over his shoulder at him. "Don't do that," he says. "Don't lean forward…and stay in the back where people can't see through the windows. You're missing, remember?"

"Dean, you're not listening."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Holy crap, are you taking bitch lessons from my brother? Because bravo." He heaves a sigh, coughs again from the effort. He glances back at Tate again after a moment. "I'm listening, Tate," he says wearily. "I am. And I hear ya, bub, but there's nothing we can do about that, okay? We just have to keep going and worry about me later. We don't really have a choice about how to go about things, here, and taking time out to sit in a waiting room is definitely not on the list. And that's what I've been telling people from the start, so no offense, but I'm getting tired of it. Just stay near me where I can keep an eye on you; that would help me the most." It's the most Dean has said in one go in a while. It leaves him breathless and wheezy.

Tate shakes his head, burying his face into his hands. When he speaks, his palms muffle his voice.

"I know; I get it. I just—God, this sucks. I don't know what I'm trying to say, or what I'm supposed to say."

The car is suddenly filled with Dean's laughter. Tate looks up, surprised. The hunter has his head thrown back and he's practically howling. He laughs for so long and so hard that Tate starts to feel confused, then uncomfortable. The teen arches an eyebrow warily. "I don't get it."

Dean lets out a whoosh of air and wipes the tears out of the corners of his eyes, presumably from all the laughter. He rubs his nose for a second, chuckling to himself.

"Oh, nothing really," the hunter says. "I was just thinking of how much I can relate."

* * *

Seeing the Impala parked on the property is like a beacon in the darkness. When they walk up to it, Dean has to resist the urge to get inside the beloved car and pass out on the seat. Instead, he settles for reaching out and patting her as they pass. They haven't taken two steps when Dean thrusts an arm out and stops Tate.

"Hold up for a sec," he mutters, and suddenly swings back and doubles up by the wheel of the car and vomits. Tate hangs back, uncertain. It's when he sees Dean start to sag onto one knee that he steps forward.

"Dean! Hey, don't do that. Open your eyes." He's rubbing and patting at Dean's back with one arm while he's hoisting him up with the other. Dean shakes his head and blinks, eyes unfocused.

"Yeah, I'm good…I'm good," he murmurs. "Just dizzy." He straightens out of Tate's grasp and rubs his eyes. When he looks up, his face is ghost white. His lips are definitely becoming blue tinged. He knows that he blacked out for a moment, and he's not only just embarrassed; he's deeply concerned. Earlier, he felt like he was flickering in and out of reality, confused from the fever. Now he feels more out of it than in, and his vision is tunneling and graying out around the edges. His head is spinning crazily and his skin feels constricted with heat. Even though he's purged himself, it doesn't help with his churning stomach, and the fact that he has to fight just to take a breath of air does nothing to help the situation.

Above all, he fears that the next time he passes out, it will be at the worst of times. He can't let that happen; he just can't. He takes as deep a breath he can manage, wills his head to clear as he looks around.

The property seems quiet, like Dean and Tate are the only two people there. Dean knows that's bull. He scans the garage and the rows of semi trucks parked outside. Some have their trailers still hooked up. Wordlessly, Dean turns back to the Impala. For a moment Tate thinks that he's going to throw up again but the hunter clearly has other plans. He deftly picks the lock on the trunk and riffles through it briefly. "Come here," he says to the teen. Tate obeys, and Dean is loading a handgun and shaking his head. "I can't believe I'm doing this," he mutters. He gives Tate a hard look. "For the love of God, don't shoot yourself." He hands over the gun. "That's one of my favorite Smith & Wessons," he admonishes. "Do you know how to use it?"

Tate nods dumbly. "My dad takes me to the shooting range sometimes," he stammers. It's not the same thing and he knows it, but Dean looks a little mollified.

The hunter nods once. "Okay, then." He starts moving again.

Tate quickly follows, tearing his eyes away from the 9mm in his hand. "Where are we going?" he asks. "The shop?"

Dean shakes his head. "We will be, but not just yet." He's holding a pair of bolt cutters, left from Sam's little locker check at the high school, and uses it to indicate the trucks. "Something tells me I'm gonna be pissed at myself if we don't open these up." It's then that they hear it, and they both freeze.

It's faint and muffled, but it's there. Yelling and pounding.

Tate's face pales, and he breaks into a run. Dean hauls after him, cursing his weakness. He can barely keep up, and when they come to the first line of semi trucks his heart feels like it's going to explode from working so hard with so little oxygen. His muscles are also deprived, and he can barely keep himself on his feet. He's well aware that he's shaking, but it can't be helped. When Tate looks at him, the kid's eyes are bright, full of hope and urgency. "Can you hear that?"

Dean can. There's a voice, distinctly calling Tate's name. It sounds as though it's coming from a tin barrel. A tin barrel about twenty-five feet away. It doesn't take them long to discern which trailer the yelling is coming from, and with every step the noise gets louder. Soon, they can tell that there's more than one person in there. When they get to the trailer Dean has to stop and bend over to cough, shoulders shaking as he hacks and chokes. He thrusts the cutters to Tate, who takes them without hesitation and whirls on the padlock that keeps the bolt fastened. It's more difficult than he had thought it would have been; the padlock is large and heavy. He strains for a moment, but then the adrenalin kicks in and lends him the extra surge of strength he needs. He hears a metallic snap and he opens eyes he hadn't even been aware of closing. With shaking hands, vaguely aware of Dean straightening up beside him, Tate tosses the padlock down to the ground, slides the bolt free. Dean grimly reaches up and they each take a door, swinging them open without a word.

Jen comes flying out.

"Tate!" She throws her arms around her brother. Her face is wet with tears and she's grinning ear to ear. "I'm so happy to see you. I knew you'd come."

She looks up then, and sees Dean. The smile vanishes and she stiffens. "Who are you?" Her eyes narrow in recognition. "You. You guys came to the apartment. I followed you to the motel-"

"And you were taken?" Dean finishes.

Jen looks reticent to confirm or comment. "How would you know?" she asks slowly. Tate reaches over and gently grasps his sister's wrist, drawing her attention.

"Jen," he says placating, "it's okay. His name's Dean, his brother is Sam. They've been helping us. They know Miles." The emphasis is obvious and Jen seems to settle down slightly. She nods and looks back to Dean, who holds out his hand.

When Jen takes Dean's hand, the first thing she notices is that his skin is burning hot. It's then that she notices the other things: the paleness, the sweating, and harsh breathing. His eyes are glazed and it's obvious he's working hard to stay on his feet.

"This is kind of like déjà vu," he jokes lamely. "I feel like I've met you already. Your doppelganger was pretty much a dead ringer."

Now that she knows he's on their side, Jen feels suddenly shy. He's incredibly gorgeous. "How do you know what's going on?" She asks tremulously. "Are you a hunter like Miles was?"

Even as she asks him, Dean is already climbing into the trailer. He is met with confused, blinking stares. All four other missing students are there, bound and gagged. The hunter bends down swiftly and begins untying them, giving the inside of the trailer a cursory inspection. Near the doors is a small pile of discarded ropes. His eyes sweep over the frame around the door and he understands. She must have sawn through the ropes by rubbing her wrists against the projections around the hinges. This would have been tediously slow going; she must have started the second they threw her in here. As he works, Jen's voice drifts into the trailer.

"-hole near the rear. I noticed it when the daylight came through it. I could see a black car pull up, and I think I saw Miles go in, but he wasn't alone. And then I saw my car, and you. So I started screaming. I'm so glad you heard me."

"We didn't, at least not right away. It was Dean's idea." Tate's voice. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm awesome now." Jen's voice wavers. "You saved me. Thank you, little brother."

Dean unties the first kid, a girl about thirteen. Her eyes are red and swollen from crying, but the rescue seems to have worked wonders on her morale. Her hands fly up as soon as they're free and she takes the gag off.

"Who are you?" she asks, her eyes huge.

"I'm Dean," the hunter responds. "And I'm sorry, but we don't have time for much else in the way of introductions. Can you untie your feet? Good. In a little bit we're going to get you out of here, so just hang tight for now. Yeah? You can do that?" He looks up as he hears Tate stepping up into the trailer, Jen behind him, who quickly moves to help untie the other two kids. Tate bends and works on the ropes around their feet.

In moments, the group is up on their feet, but Dean holds his hand out. "Wait," he says as they begin to move towards the exit. He clears his throat, wincing, and turns to Jen. "Do you have your keys?" She nods, and Dean continues. "Okay, good. It's going to be tight, but I want you to cram everyone in your shoebox of a car and take everyone somewhere safe. Take them to a motel. Take my cell phone; I'll call it when this is over. I'll let it ring twice, then hang up. Then I'll call straight back and you answer. Like that, okay? Don't answer otherwise. Don't let them make any phone calls," he glances over shoulder as he says it, voice dropping to a low whisper. He pushes his phone into her hands. "Whatever you do, don't let them contact anyone. We don't know what their doppelgangers are doing, or where they are, who they're with. So we need them under wraps until we figure out the next step. Okay?"

Jen nods, intent on his every word. "Okay," she says, and Dean can tell that she means it. He's grateful to her for keeping her head together because there's just not enough time for damage control right now. When they step outside of the trailer, the hair on the back of the hunter's arms raises, and the back of his neck prickles. Something is different. In the next moment he sees what it is.

The lights in the garage shop are on.

Dean turns to Jen and Tate. "Okay, this is it. Keep low to the ground and move as fast as you can."

"I'd advise against that."

The voice is soft, feminine. When Dean turns around, he is met with a familiar face. He searches his brain for a brief moment but then he remembers who she is.

Alice, the sweet little mouse of a receptionist at James Fulton. She smiles at what Dean can only guess is a confounded expression on his face.

"Hey again, Dean," she doesn't sound shy anymore. In fact, she seems pretty confident in the situation. It must be because she has Miles with him and she's ramming a gun in between his shoulder blades. Miles has his hands tied behind his back, and he's bleeding from a gash on his head. His eyes are sparking defiance.

Dean stands his ground unflinchingly, nudges himself in front of his wards. "Where's Sam?" he demands, voice a low growl. He coughs into his shoulder, unable to stop himself.

Alice flicks her eyes over in the direction of the garage, inclining her head slightly. "Inside," she says simply. "Where you're all going."

"I'll go without a fight, but let everyone else go. You don't need them."

Alice gives a slow shake of her head. "Sorry, Dean. But you know as well as I that I can't do that. That would defeat the purpose of the whole operation. Now come inside before the show starts."

Dean glares, biting back a remark. "What are you talking about?" he asks instead, threateningly.

Alice smiles serenely. "We're calling an old mutual friend over." She blinks and then Dean is suddenly staring into black pools of malice.

_Of course it's a demon. When is it not a demon? _Dean chuckles to himself, but he's not sure if it's out loud or just in his head. A fit of shivering is sweeping over him and the buzzing in his head increases.

Alice notices. "You look like shit, Dean. Like you've seen your ghost, or something along those lines. It figures even your doppelganger would be obnoxiously meddling. It's been going rogue for a little while, now." She nods towards the shop again. "Inside, please. I won't ask so nicely again." She pushes the gun harder against Miles meaningfully.

Dean holds his hands out. "Fine," he grates out. He motions for his charges to bunch up closer to him. "Lead the way."

* * *

If you're up for sharing, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Thanks for reading! Hope to see you again for the last bit!


	10. A Means for an End

Hi, everyone. I'm so late with this I'm embarrassed. I can't apologize enough, but in my defence it was due to circumstances beyond my control. I had a major computer fail right as I was nearing the end and I lost it all. I was so disgusted I walked away for a little while and then the finale came along and totally blasted me. The result is what I've posted here, and it's pretty much completely different from what I had originally done. I hope that there are some people still interested in how it ends, but I can't blame anyone for wandering away if they have. Also, I should preemptively apologize to anyone who will hate how I've ended the story, which is with a non-ending. I really, really didn't want the conclusion to be influenced by the finale (especially since I always intended this to be completed during the hiatus right after 5.14) and in the end this is the way I decided to spin it. I'd also like to thank everyone one last time for all of the amazing support - all the alerts, favorites, and reviews mean so much to me and you've made writing my first story just an incredible experience. I'm hoping to get more up on here throughout the summer if anyone's interested. Finally, I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Mirrordance, if she doesn't mind: thanks for your lovely PMs, and I'm sorry this didn't get done quickly like you'd hoped (wince).

Special thanks to Katiki for all of her amazing advice! You really helped me out and I can't stress that enough.

On a side note, I am thinking a beta reader is something I probably need. If anyone is at all interested I would be extremely grateful and would love to hear from you!

Again, thanks so much, everyone, for reading this story. It didn't go according to plan and it took a different direction than what I'd expected. But it was fun! I'll shut up now, except for the disclaimer.

Disclaimer: Not mine. The end.

* * *

It isn't a reunion held under the best of circumstances but a reunion it is, nonetheless. Sam picks his head up at the sound of coughing, knowing instantly who it is before Dean even stumbles into view with the Burke siblings and four teenagers in tow. Alice points Sam's appropriated gun at the group as they shuffle into the garage. The younger Winchester is equally relieved and devastated: relieved that Dean and everyone else are okay, devastated that they're caught and Dean's really not _okay_. He can't believe how much worse his brother looks in such a short amount of time.

Dean shuffles into view, passing by Jen's doppelganger. He looks over at it and it smiles smugly at him, obviously pleased. "Hi, sweetheart," he spits. "You really had me going there." He locks eyes with Sam and forces a grin.

"Hey, Sam," the hunter says brightly. "How's it hanging?" He throws Patterson's doppelganger a glare when he sees it standing over the younger Winchester with a gun. "If you so much as touch my brother," Dean warns in a scratchy voice.

Alice pushes Miles to the ground, where he sits cross-legged and meets grim eyes with the younger Winchester. She grabs two rolls of duct tape from a nearby trolley and throws one at Jen's doppelganger. It promptly moves to the group and begins binding their wrists together behind their backs. The students don't struggle, frightened into acquiescence. Tate and Jen stiffen, unsure, and look to Dean. Sam watches as the hunter nods to them and they submit. Alice steps behind Dean, duct tape at the ready.

"Try anything and your brother gets a bullet in the head," she says in a voice plainly meant to be heard by both Winchesters. "Arms behind your back." Dean growls but otherwise allows her to bind his wrists. She wraps the duct tape around one last time before she rips the roll free, yanking roughly on the hunter's arms.

"Before I forget," the demon adds, hand sliding under the fabric of Dean's shirt. The hunter steels himself, grounding his legs into the floor with an impassively cold expression.

Sam catches his brother's eye and he knows that Dean can see the apprehension on his face. The elder Winchester offers a ghost of a smile, eyebrow lifting minutely in an expression meant only for Sam. It's the look Dean always gives him right before the shit is about to hit the fan. It's the same look he got from him when they were kids and Dad busted one of them for pulling some smartass stunt. It's the same look when Dean meets a random pretty face and it's time to get out of there unless he wants to watch Don Juan in action. When they're hunting it's the look he gives him right as he's about to do something really, really stupid and risky. And right now it's pretty much the last thing Sam wants to see on his brother's face. He has no idea what Dean could possibly be thinking.

"I'll just relieve you of this," Alice tells the hunter, withdrawing her hand from the small of his back. She's holding his gun. Dean smiles wryly.

"Whatever you say, bitch," he mutters, stifling a cough into his shoulder.

Alice ignores him, turns to Jen's doppelganger. "Lock them up," she says, gesturing to the Burke siblings and four students as she hands over the gun she's confiscated from Dean. The doppelganger takes it and prods at the nearest hostage, a boy about fifteen.

"Get going," it says roughly, with a shove. The boy stumbles a bit but falls in with the rest of the group, moving to the closest door. It's the door leading to the office with the pile of corpses that Sam now presumes to be Patterson and the mechanics of this shop, stacked up in a rotting heap.

"Not there!" Sam's voice booms in his own ears. He gentles his tone, trying to sound halfway reasonable. "Please. Not in there…with that." He nods emphatically towards the door, his meaning unmistakable. Not in there, with the bodies.

Jen has already walked up close enough to the windows looking into the office. One glance and she stops dead in her tracks, head bowed. She shuts her eyes and Sam can hear her fighting with herself to keep her voice steady. "Don't come any closer," she says in a strained whisper. Tate all but bumps into her and the rest of the group stop in confusion.

"What are you doing?" a boy about seventeen hisses at Jen. "They have guns!" He looks like he's ready to jump out of his skin from fright. Being taller than Jen, he easily peeps over her shoulder through the glass and instantly pales. "Oh, God," he says in a high-pitched moan. A girl begins to weep.

Jen's doppelganger rolls its eyes. "For fuck sakes," it growls, but gestures for them to follow further down the shop. Sam strains his neck to watch as the group is ushered into another room, this one without windows. The doppelganger holds the door open in a mocking manner and gestures grandly for them to enter. Jen is first and it pushes her shoulder as she passes. She manages to keep herself from stumbling and turns to watch the rest of the group enter as she steps inside. The doppelganger reaches in and pulls a chair from out of the room before it shuts the door, wedging it under the doorknob to keep the door jammed shut and rejoins Alice obediently. It's the look that Jen's doppelganger gives the demon and the way it keeps its eyes trained on Alice that brings Sam to the realization out of nowhere.

_They're bound to her._

Sam raises an eyebrow and looks to Dean, who purses his lips together tightly in acknowledgement and darts a glance at the door the Burke siblings and the rest of the kids are shut behind. Sam shakes his head minutely, not understanding. Now he's positive that Dean is cooking something up. If only he was in the know as to what exactly that something was. It's not about a question of trust, because he trusts Dean. He does, absolutely. But it makes him worry that he won't be able to watch his older brother's back as well if he doesn't know what Dean's going to do next. Looking at Dean, he can see him shaking and swaying where he stands. The demon is very aware of how sick the hunter is. It's clear that he would be better off sitting but Dean won't back down so he stays on his feet. The demon is clearly enjoying watching him struggle.

"Before you joined us, Dean, Sam and I were just having a conversation about a certain duty he's going to fulfill shortly." Alice looks meaningfully over Dean's shoulder to Sam, and he has to breathe deeply to calm himself, to keep himself from rushing her despite the gun trained on him by an imposter in a tracksuit.

_I'm going to be the one that kills you._ It's the one thought that keeps the younger Winchester calm and steady as he glares unequivocal daggers at the demon. It's the same thought that's been running through his head in endless litany since it showed its true colours and blinked at him, eyes turning black and malevolent.

Dean snorts. "Duty? You mean letting Lucifer ride him?" His eyes flick to Sam, face grim. Sam returns the look, jaw clenched. "And how did that go?"

"Not as well as I'd like," Alice concedes, coming around to stand in front of Dean. "But that won't matter, not when he gets here."

"So why don't you call him?" Sam challenges. "Get him on up here. The answer is still no."

The demon lifts an eyebrow in suggestion, eyes glinting. "Even if I kill those kids and that lovely young woman if you don't say yes? That's pretty cold, Sam."

"They're dead either way," Dean answers for his brother, drawing the demon's attention back to him. "Whether Lucifer kills them, you kill them, whatever. And it's a pretty sure thing that they all saw their doppelgangers when you ganked them, anyway. So they're cursed for death even if they get out of here alive." His face hardens. "But not unless I kill you, huh? You're the one that summoned them here and planted those coins, which means they're bound to you somehow. So if you die all bets are off and it clears your goons off the table, too. Do I have this right?"

Sam can't stop himself from smiling when he hears Patterson's doppelganger mutter under its breath. Dean has it right.

"You know what else I think?" Dean continues, a smile playing on his features. "I think if you could have killed those kids, you would have already. You need them alive for now and it has to do with their doppelgangers. What do you think, Sam?"

Sam is more than happy to play along. "I think so, Dean," he answers his brother in a speculative voice. "Maybe it's similar to a shape shifter. They need the kids alive to siphon off of their memories or something."

Alice exchanges brief looks with the doppelgangers, turns to Sam and winks before she knees Dean roughly in the crotch. The elder Winchester grunts in surprise and pain, doubling over in a simultaneous coughing fit. He stays on his feet, though, and manages to glare at the demon as soon as he's able to lift his head while he coughs painfully. Sam growls savagely. "Don't touch my brother!" he shouts even as he gets a foot in his kidney from Patterson's doppelganger for his trouble. The hunter bites back a groan.

"Temper, Sam," the demon that is Alice tsk-tsks, shaking her head. "Still, credit where it's due and all. You're partially right, at least." She runs hands over Dean's legs as she speaks, patting at his ribs and checking along his waist and in his pockets as she searches for any additional weapons. Finding nothing else on the hunter she straightens before continuing, eyes flipping black. "You could have killed me, Dean. If you were prepared that is, which neither you nor your brother appear to be. Sam and your angel friend brought a knife for breaking the doppelganger curse, but no demon-killing knife." Dean shoots Sam an accusative glare, like he had forgotten to roll up the Impala's window overnight during a storm. It's almost enough to make Sam squirm under the blame, except that Dean _also _neglected to bring the knife and he returns the same look in vindication, which the elder Winchester rolls his eyes at in response.

_And this was supposed to be a demon-free hunt. _Sam almost finds it funny.

The demon lifts an eyebrow while it crosses its arms, regarding Sam.

"You've got the gist, anyway" it says. "The doppelganger does have access to the memories of the person it's doubling, that much is true. So to that end I've been keeping our friends in the next room alive, yes. Their entire purpose is to shadow the person like an evil twin. No control over it; it's just what they are. They don't have to be gym teachers or horny teenagers. They can be whomever they choose. They're amorphous. And the beauty of it all is their curse. I love that part."

"Then why is Coach Finstock here still kicking around if you've killed Patterson?" Sam queries, nodding up at Patterson's doppelganger.

Alice shrugs noncommittally. "As long as they stay under my service I can give them what they want: the choice to remain and continue living as that person. And that's all they want, really. Just the simple choice – it makes all the difference. So I call them up with some charms, give them a crack at a life as a real live person and then when things run their course we slit their throats and the doppelgangers can move on to the next. And I keep being amused by the bedlam they create." She turns eyes that are glowing with anticipation on the Winchester brothers, jutting a finger under Dean's chin. The hunter straightens in a jerky motion as he tries to twist his head away. He stiffens in revulsion and looks at the demon, disdain pulling the corners of his mouth into a scowl.

"Then you two apes came along," Alice continues. "And that was the deal maker, right there. First, your angelic sidekick made for a pretty good beacon to find you. Then you saved us the time and trouble of finding the old man and the boy by bringing his sister right to us." Alice pats Dean on the shoulder, patronizing. "I really feel like I should be thanking you. I'm sorry to see you're feeling off, Dean. It's your doppelganger, no doubt. It started poking around after I rolled into town and found myself some willing recruits. I can see it's really done quite a number on you. I'm guessing it's made more than one visit by the looks of it. And not only did you bring us the thorns in our sides but you also brought yourselves, the vessels. It's almost poetic. So again, thanks for everything. I know it came at quite the inconvenience for you."

Dean chuckles, mirthless. "So we do all the work while you get all the credit or something?"

"Or something," the demon agrees.

"Well then, you're welcome for the boost to the pay grade," the elder Winchester mutters without enthusiasm. He looks over at Sam casually. The younger Winchester just knows that his brother is going to say something stupid.

"You as bored as I am, Sammy? Not only is this bitch small potatoes – she won't shut the hell up."

The words have barely left Dean's mouth before Alice sneers and kicks the backs of his knees sharply. Unable to keep himself from crumbling to his knees, he is met with a vicious kick to the kidney. He coughs and bends forward, fighting to stay up. Sam tries to rise up onto his knees but feels a restraining hand on his shoulder. Patterson's doppelganger tightens its grip on the hunter and bends down slightly, eyes flashing. "If your ass leaves the ground I shoot the old man," it hisses. "I wouldn't mind doing it, either." Sam's blood is near boiling at seeing his brother's mistreatment but he forces himself to sit back down on his haunches. His heart is pounding so loudly in his ears he can barely hear Miles shouting objections in the background. He twists and flexes his bound wrists desperately, grinding his teeth in frustration. He can't believe he doesn't have a contingency plan, a back door, not even a goddamn escape hatch to spring open. It would be nice if Cas could come back from wherever the hell he was sent and do some smiting or something, _anything_. Anytime now would be awesome.

Alice bends down close to Dean's face. The hunter is still coughing and heaving desperately. "Small potatoes?" she hisses. "I'm not so sure. From this angle you're the pathetic one. I've heard the buzz. You've lost your spunk, haven't you, Dean?" She draws back and kicks him again. This time Dean collapses all the way to the ground, landing on his shoulder and curling up defensively. He sputters and gasps for air, unable to speak.

"Stop it!" Miles shouts again. "Leave him be, you bloody freak."

Alice stops and raises amused eyes to Miles. She points at herself.

"Me?" she asks. "We're in the same room as Sam and Dean Winchester, and you're calling _me _the freak?"

"If the shoe fits," Miles responds, bringing himself slowly to a stand. Alice isn't concerned and he manages to make it to his feet unchallenged. The ex-hunter settles his shoulders and fixes the demon with a defiant look.

Alice regards the ex-hunter appraisingly before she pushes Dean into a sitting position, facing the older man. She has her gun casually in hand. "You know, Miles," the demon begins, a smile toying on the receptionist's features. "I may have underestimated you. I certainly never would have taken you for someone who used to hunt but I've got to say you've impressed me: I never thought you'd live this long. I mean, we've had to keep those kids under lock and key just to make sure they don't meet any untimely ends before they've outlived their usefulness. And here you've been walking around in the open despite the doppelganger curse. No car crashes, no gas leaks, fatal heart attacks. And killing your doppelganger? Teaming up with the Winchesters? You've proved that you're resilient, to say the least. You have my grudging respect."

As the demon speaks, Sam feels a growing knot of apprehension in the pit of his stomach. It's when Miles takes a step to the side and Dean eases over onto his back that he understands what's about to happen. Jen's doppelganger is standing next to Alice, between the demon's gun and the ex-hunter while loosely holding onto its own. The muzzle is pointing at the floor, the doppelganger's wrist loose and fingers lax. Miles springs into action, taking advantage of the dropped guard. He leaps forward and crashes into Jen's doppelganger shoulder-first as Dean simultaneously swings his legs out from behind, catching both demon and doppelganger and sending them crashing to the ground. Sam has all of two seconds to throw himself as far away as he can from any path a stray bullet may take. Sure enough, there is the single report of gunfire and a pained, surprised cry immediately after. Heart pounding, Sam cranes his neck from where he has awkwardly belly-flopped to look in Dean's direction. He is immediately met with Dean's grinning face and whips around to look behind him to follow his brother's line of vision and see what has him smiling so wide.

Patterson's doppelganger is yelling loudly, gun lying discarded and forgotten on the ground as it white knuckles its thigh, clawing and grasping. Blood is rapidly blooming through the fabric of its pants. "You bitch!" it screams at Jen's doppelganger.

"Sam, get Tate-" Dean starts to yell, but his voice gives way to a strangled cry and then more coughing as the demon leaps to its feet and Alice's pointed shoe buries itself in the hunter's side.

Alice is furious. She lifts smoldering eyes to Sam after one last vicious kick. Dean hunches up into himself; he can't do much else.

"Your brother is going to pay dearly for that," she tells the younger Winchester.

"Leave him be," Sam demands sharply. "Touch him again and I'll-"

"You'll what? Drink my blood and vanquish me with your powers? Go right ahead. That's what he wants, anyway. Drink as much as you can and make yourself ready for Lucifer. You'll just be getting your house in order, vessel."

Alice's words crack like a whip. Sam sees his brother flinch slightly at the demon's feet. He's still struggling to recover from the demon's blows and his legs are curled defensively towards his body, unable to protect himself otherwise with his hands duct taped behind his back. Sam can see that Dean's shoulders are shaking as he suppresses a coughing fit. His eyes are rolling, consciousness ebbing away.

The demon smirks down at Dean, satisfied. Then she looks up with a distasteful expression over Sam's shoulder. "Will you stop it with all that bawling? You're worse than the real Patterson was."

The whimpering behind Sam abruptly tapers off. He cautiously turns his head in time to see Patterson's doppelganger begin to slide down the wall. The hands that had been gripping the gunshot wound so tightly were now slackened, revealing bright, pumping blood that is gushing in strong, rhythmic spurts. For one dazed moment Sam allows himself to be curious about the very human-like arterial leak the creature has sprung. Then he remembers the gun.

_Shit, shit, shit._ Sam had been inexorably inching his way towards his brother, taking advantage of the distraction Patterson's doppelganger was creating, but now he pauses. It's an agonizing choice. He wants to check on his brother more than anything else but the rational part of his brain is whispering hard, irrefutable logic into his inner ear.

The fact of the matter: Sam's hands are tied behind his back.

The truth: He can't do anything to help his brother like this.

The silver lining: There is a gun lying not ten feet away. It won't kill a demon, but it will obviously slow down the doppelgangers. If he can just get to the Impala and get the knife to kill the demon this will all be over.

As surreptitiously as he can, Sam begins to switch directions and begin a slow crawl back towards Patterson's doppelganger, which is gushing blood and already is too far gone to put up much fight. Aside from the odd moan and painful shuffle of feet there isn't much movement. Alice's voice settles like frost over the room.

"If you're going to be that dramatic about it."

The demon calmly lifts the gun in her hand, doesn't blink as she takes quick aim and shoots, striking Patterson's doppelganger in the chest. One last rattling moan and it dies, eyes open and surprised. There is a brief silence that follows until Dean's coughing shatters the quiet. Sam looks on desperately. He can see his brother is holding onto consciousness by the barest of threads, shivering so hard his teeth are chattering noisily.

_He's running out of time. _

It seems to Sam like that's the story of Dean's life, running out of time. He ran out of time after he made that deal to save Sam's own sorry ass, to bring him back from death. And then he went to hell and he ran out of time down there, too. He broke after thirty unspeakable years. Then he came back top side and what does Sam do? He lies to him, betrays, _bloodies_ his brother. And then he breaks the last seal by doing exactly what he was told not to do. He killed Lilith and started the Apocalypse and they're running out of time. Again.

It's more than Sam can take. He's not going through it again. He's not losing his brother.

The sound of a door opening and closing from the far end of the garage pricks Sam's ears. Alice and Jen's doppelganger hear it also and Sam takes advantage of their turned backs by soundlessly wriggling over to the discarded gun. He rolls onto his side and grasps the gun awkwardly, stuffing it into the small of his back and pulling his shirt over it with his bound hands. He looks up to see Miles watching him silently.

"I was wondering when you'd show up," Alice comments to an approaching figure. Sam groans inwardly.

Tate's doppelganger is standing there.

"Take that," the demon motions to the gun held by Jen's doppelganger, flicks a cold gaze at Sam before she speaks again.

"There is just one small matter to deal with before Lucifer is summoned. Those trifles in that room have served their purpose long enough. Go kill them, please."

* * *

Tate pulls his ear away from the door when he can no longer hear the doppelganger's retreating footsteps on the other side. "She's gone," he says in a hushed voice to the group.

"We're going to die," one girl moans, sinking down onto a chair.

"No, we're not," Tate quickly says, eyes running over the room. His heart is racing a hundred miles a minute and he feels like he could piss himself from fright at any given moment but he tries his best to keep it together. It must be the adrenalin, or maybe it's the calming presence of his sister that does it, but somehow he crams his fear into the furthest corner of his brain and refuses to think of anything but the situation at hand. They're in a break room, apparently. There is a round table and some chairs, a couch, a fridge, sink, and cupboards.

_Maybe there's something we can use. Even a fucking butter knife is better than nothing. _"Weapons," he tells the group. "We need to start looking for weapons."

The eldest teen sneers. "What the fuck are you talking about? Our hands our tied behind our backs. She's right - we're going to die here!" His voice cracks as panic creeps into his tone and one of the girls starts to wail.

"Shut up!" Tate hisses at him. He turns to Jen.

"My left ankle," he says to his sister. "Can you reach it?"

Jen nods, unsure where her brother is going with this. "Tate, what's going on?" The teen has an odd look on his face, a mixture of pale-faced trepidation and urgency. He licks his lips, which she recognizes as his nervous tick. It also means that he's going to tell her something of vital importance.

He doesn't disappoint her.

"Back outside - when we were caught and being brought here," Tate begins, bending his left leg at the knee behind him while Jen awkwardly fumbles at Tate's jean leg, pushing the denim up past his ankle as best she can with her hands tied behind her back. She has to crane her neck over her shoulder to see what she's doing.

"Dean stumbled, or he pretended to anyway. He made it look like he was bumping into me. But he didn't. He slipped me that. She took my gun when she caught us, but she never checked me for anything else. I guess Dean figured that would happen."

Jen manages to pull up Tate's jeans up past his ankle far enough to see for herself what her brother is talking about. It's one of the best looking sights she's seen in a long, long time.

The handle of a knife is sticking out from the top of his sock. Jen lifts grateful, quizzical eyes to her brother and he hastens to explain.

"Dean's doppelganger came to me and gave me that, so it must be important. We need to get it to Dean and Sam."

Jen nods, carefully slides the blade free.

"Don't cut me," Tate admonishes as she starts sawing at the duct tape around his wrists with difficulty. She can't really see what she's doing and it's tough going.

"Same to you," she responds. Admires her little brother, remembering when he was ten and she took him through one of those lame haunted houses they set up every year at the fair and he was so scared he cried. Wonders when he suddenly got so brave.

Feels her heart swell with pride.

* * *

It's just as Jen finishes cutting Tate free that the first gunshot is heard. Jen is so startled she drops the knife as one girl screams in fright, sobbing hysterically. Tate pulls the remaining shreds of duct tape off his wrists and wordlessly bends down and picks it up, face grim. Moments later, another shot cracks through the air.

"Do you think-?" Jen breaks off before she finishes the question, and Tate looks up briefly while he works on cutting her free. She tries again.

"What do you think would happen…if?"

"I don't know."

It's all he can manage. It's the hardest lie he's ever had to say. He knows exactly what will happen to them if their prospective rescuers are killed. Even if they managed to escape, they had already seen their doppelgangers and they were still cursed for death. He knows this because he heard them discussing it in hushed voices back at Miles' apartment when they thought he and Jen were asleep on the couch.

_But Jen doesn't know that_. The thought strikes Tate suddenly and with clarity. He decides right then and there that if by some chance they do get out of here and the curse or whatever it is isn't broken he's not going to tell his sister about it. If death is inevitable for them at least her final days won't be darkened with that knowledge. He thinks briefly of the things that he would want to do in his last days. Getting Jen to come over for a family dinner is on top of the list. _Maybe I can even convince her to get along with Dad for more than five minutes._ It's the best goodbye he can think of. His heart aches over the thought that he's the only one who would know that it was even a goodbye at all.

It's just as Tate slices through the last of Jen's restraints that the sound of a chair being removed from under the doorknob can be heard, the legs scraping against the cement floor. He doesn't have time to think about what he's doing, just slips behind the door. He watches Jen's face before his view is obstructed from the opening door, the other teens shrinking back in fearful apprehension. His sister's face pales and her eyes widen as a figure steps through. Tate can hardly believe his own ears when he hears his voice speaking to her.

"It ends here for you."

Tate peers around the edge of the door and sees himself standing there. From his vantage point he can see what Jen doesn't: a gun tucked into the small of its back. Fear curdles his stomach and his mouth goes dry as he understands what the doppelganger means to do.

_This can't happen. It can't end like this._

He's moving before he realizes it. It's at that moment the doppelganger's hand stops reaching for its gun. "Where's the boy?" it asks suddenly.

And turns around right as Tate rushes headlong into it, burying the knife deep in its belly. Its eyes widen in shocked disbelief. Tate can see himself in those eyes, can see he's wearing the same expression. He's not sure who's pantomiming whom; it's beyond surreal. After a moment Tate is able to shake himself out of it and he slowly withdraws the knife. The second he does, the doppelganger begins to crumble from the feet up, collapsing in on itself. Moments later all that is left is a pile of dust, leaving Tate standing there with the knife still gripped in his hand. The room is eerily silent, everyone transfixed by the abrupt shock of what just happened. Tate isn't sure how he expected to feel about killing the doppelganger but he doesn't feel _good_. There was no choice; it had to be done. But that didn't make it any easier. It had felt exactly like how it must feel to sink a knife into human flesh, and the thought fills Tate's mouth with sour bile. He turns and retches, barely missing his own feet. Jen is there instantly, rubbing his back. When he's done he wipes his mouth and looks at her, realization dawning on his face. The doppelganger really was his exact double, right down to the clothes it was wearing. He looks at the door.

"I know how to get the knife to Sam and Dean." _If they're still alive._

Jen watches as he stoops and picks up the gun left behind by the doppelganger. Her mouth drops open in horror as she comprehends his intentions.

"No, Tate," she says, slowly shaking her head. "No, you can't. I won't let you do this. This is crazy. Crazier than crazy – it's completely insane."

"And that's why it's gonna work, Jen," Tate insists. "We have maybe two seconds before they come in wondering why it hasn't started shooting us yet. Please. Trust me?"

Jen hates it, but she concedes defeat after a breathless pause. He's right. They have about zero other options besides certain death. Tate can see it in Jen's eyes the exact moment she gives in. He gives her a grateful, fearful look and tries his best to smile. The one she returns him is equally shaky. Wordlessly, Tate points the gun at the couch and discharges it, one bullet for each person.

Tate's out the door before either of them can change their minds.

* * *

Sam watches, horrified, as Tate's doppelganger takes the gun from Jen's and turns to the door leading to the siblings and the rest of the group.

"Wait, stop. You don't have to do this," Sam pleads, looking to Alice and the doppelganger alternately but eliciting a response from neither. It's Miles who is spurred into action and makes a move as though to follow after Tate's double. In two strides, Jen's doppelganger is standing directly in front of him.

"Go back and sit down," it tells him, pointing.

Miles responds with a head butt.

Stunned, the doppelganger drop to its knees and the ex-hunter steps around it. "You and what gun?" he grumbles. He makes it all of three steps before it gets back to its feet and charges at him with a yell. Miles turns around, but not fast enough to anticipate an attack, especially with his hands bound.

"Miles!" Sam yells, doesn't have enough time for a more explicit warning. He's aware of Dean trying to raise his head off the floor to see what's going on but he can't focus on his older brother right at this second. He can only watch as Jen's doppelganger pulls out Castiel's knife and stabs Miles in the chest, powerless to do anything else.

"I don't need a gun," it hisses and yanks out the blade. "This doesn't just kill doppelgangers, you know." Miles falls to the floor; after two breaths Sam can hear a wet gurgling. Then nothing.

Sam is positively enraged, so angry he's literally seeing red. "You're going to pay for that," he promises, straining against his bonds. He glances at his brother, but Dean's passed out. The deepening blue of his lips squelches any comfort the younger Winchester would have taken from the fact that at least his brother didn't see Miles die. Sam turns his attention back to Miles' body, the pool of blood inexorably growing. Seeing it spread is like a confirmation for Sam: it's too late for Miles, but not for his brother. Not yet. He may have failed Tate, Jen, and those kids, but he can still save Dean. He focuses on that and steels himself for the sound of gunshots, knowing that no matter how hard he can try nothing will prepare him for them, what they mean. He holds his breath.

And continues to wait.

After a few incredulous moments he dares to exhale. Even Alice and Jen's doppelganger are silent in anticipation, the only sound the rough sawing of Dean's breathing. Still nothing happens.

Sam takes the opportunity to rise to his knees and begin making his way to his unconscious brother. Alice turns to him, eyes flashing dangerously.

"What are you doing?"

Sam doesn't pause, just keeps moving forward. "I'm going to check on my brother. You going to shoot me? Shoot me, then. But I don't think that would make Lucifer too happy." He makes it to Dean, bends down and searches his brother's face for signs of revival.

"Dean? Are you with me?"

Dean's eyes flutter and open slowly. Breath a hoarse wheeze, voice a weak croak. The most wonderful sounds Sam's ever heard.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, Dean. It's me. I need you to hold on just a little bit longer, okay?"

Dean's forehead pinches. "Coach…Finstock? Was I dreaming…or did you really say that?"

Sam can't keep himself from smiling. Of course Dean would pick that out amidst everything going on. He shouldn't be this happy under these circumstances.

"Uh, yeah."

"That make you...Scott Howard?"

"No, Dean. That's you – Michael J. Fox is short."

Dean chuckles weakly until he spots Miles' body lying in a pool of blood nearby. His face darkens and his eyes move to Alice, making sure she's distracted before he whispers to his brother.

"Sam, you have to get to Tate and-" he tries to say more but he's cut off by a coughing fit. Sam is about to press his brother to continue when his attention is drawn back to Alice.

"Go check and see what's taking so long," she tells Jen's doppelganger, but before it can comply the long awaited gunshots come and moments later the door opens and Tate's doppelganger steps out.

"Well?" the demon queries, a hard edge in her voice. "What's the problem? What took you so long?"

"There was no problem," the doppelganger assures. "They're dead."

Sam opens his mouth to snarl something but is interrupted by another fit of coughing from Dean, curled on his side and gasping like a fish out of water. Pretty soon the coughing morphs into choking and it sounds like he's not breathing at all. Sam can't keep his alarm under control, and he bends desperately over his brother, peering into his face.

"Dean. Dean! Can you hear me? Breathe for me, man."

Dean's struggling to keep glassy eyes open, but he manages to obey his brother and sucks in a lungful of air. With Sam's face pushed up inches away from Dean's he can feel the heat of his brother's fever, see the tiny flecks of blood on his lips and chin. He forgets himself in his concern and unconsciously uses his body as a shield between Dean and everyone else, putting his back towards them. It's when Jen's doppelganger speaks that he realizes his mistake.

"He's got a gun!"

Sam pauses, mentally curses himself. His shirt must have ridden up as he was bending over.

"I've got it," Tate's doppelganger says and strides forward, pushing Sam to a fully seated position on the floor, angling him back to facing Alice and Jen's doppelganger. Sam winces as he feels fingers brush over the broken skin on his wrists, rubbed raw from trying to loosen the duct tape.

He is completely unprepared for the feeling of cold metal being tucked into the back of his jeans. _A knife_. Sam quickly glances up, understanding.

_It's Tate. _He almost can't believe it. Hope surges in his gut, blooming in his stomach.

Tate risks eye contact with Sam, manages to mouth two words before he turns back to face the demon. _Use it._

Sam plans to. He has no idea where this knife could have come from, but at this point he's not going to worry about that detail. Obviously it's important if Tate was out here risking himself like this. He feels a surge of regret that the poor kid had to walk right past Miles' body even as he thanks God (wherever he may be) that he did.

Dean lapses into unconsciousness again, body slackening. Sam's heart is racing along with his mind. He has to do something, and soon. It's then that Jen's doppelganger focuses in on Tate. It opens its mouth and says something that makes the hunter's heart sink.

"What is that? Is that a…string around your neck?"

Alice instantly swivels her attention towards Tate, a hard expression on her face. "What?" she asks icily.

_The spell bag from Miles_. With a growing sense of dread, Sam watches Jen's doppelganger step forward. He starts when he feels a tentative touch at the small of his back, the sensation of the knife being withdrawn. He risks a quick look over his shoulder and meets eyes with Dean. The older Winchester purses his lips and gets to work on the duct tape binding Sam's wrists. Despite the difficult reach caused by his own bound hands, Dean quickly cuts through with practiced strokes. Sam silently flexes his newly freed wrists a couple of times, taking the knife from Dean and drawing his legs up under him, waiting for the right moment.

It comes sooner than he thinks. Alice and Jen's doppelganger are paying him and Dean no attention at all, focused solely on Tate.

"You," Jen's doppelganger hisses and steps forward even closer to the kid, Castiel's knife clutched in hand. "What have you done?"

Tate's face pales. "Stay back," he stammers uncertainly, lifting his gun. The doppelganger smirks and takes another step.

"You think you have it in you to shoot your own sister?" it mocks. "Can you really do it?"

"I can do it."

The voice is a shock. Suddenly Miles is there, a vision of blood, wrapping his arms around Jen's doppelganger and grabbing Cas' knife from behind. With one deft thrust the ex-hunter buries it to the hilt in the doppelganger's body, which burns up into ash with a shriek. In an instant it's over. It's as shocking as it is sudden.

Miles remains rooted to the spot, swaying. Sam can't stop himself from gaping, nearly unable to believe his eyes. The man must be more dead than alive; he's covered in his own gore. For a brief moment Sam sees the same hunter he saw eighteen years ago in Bobby's kitchen. It's like Sam is eight all over again, looking at the man who returned his Dad back safe and sound after a hunt gone bad. Sam sees Nick Harris, the Nick Harris before he lost his son.

The ex-hunter's back is turned to him and he can't see the older man's expression, but Sam is sure that he's smiling, at peace like maybe he's thinking of Riley. He can see Tate's face, can see the spread of emotions that play across it. A moment later the sound of a gunshot booms loudly and Miles' body flinches before sagging to the ground, boneless. Tate looks at the body, stricken, before lifting tear filled eyes to Alice. The demon's gun is still raised, shifting away from Miles to Tate.

"Did you really think you could get away with it?" Her voice is ice and steel.

"Did you actually think you could save yourself and your sister? You know it's pointless, don't you?"

"It's not pointless." Sam can hear the faint quaver in the teen's voice. Then Tate pulls the trigger of his gun without warning. He hits Alice in the shoulder but the demon doesn't so much as wince. She glances down at the wound without concern as the first trickle of blood leaks through her clothing.

The demon throws her head back and laughs. "Oh, Tate," she sighs. "I don't know what these Winchesters have been filling your head with but I can assure you that yes, it is." The demon's eyes narrow. "You and your sister are going to die. Just like everyone else. But between you and me," she adds, stepping closer, "I wouldn't be overly upset about it. Things are going to get kind of bad for the human population really soon. I could be doing you a favor in the end."

Alice levels the gun at Tate's chest.

* * *

Tate squeezes his eyes shut, blocking out the sight of the gun pointing right in his face. His stomach is a block of ice and he's sure his heart has stopped. He thinks of Jen in that room behind him, ear pressed to the door. He's not going to scream. He waits for the boom of the gun, waits for pain and blinding nothingness.

"Hey!"

The voice is rough and deep. Tate's eyes snap open to see Alice spin around. Dean is there, swinging a crowbar. There is the sound of contact, of bone snapping as the hunter connects with her forearm and breaks it. The gun flies out of Alice's fingers and clatters across the floor, skidding to a stop out of reach.

Tate is so close he could tap Alice on the shoulder, but he can't do anything, can't bring himself to intervene as he watches Dean and her struggle. He's suddenly devoid of any bravery he thought he had earlier. He's rooted to the spot by confusion.

_Why didn't the gunshot bother her? _He can see Patterson's doppelganger, dead from a gunshot wound, slumped against the wall. Suddenly, Tate understands that Alice is something really, really bad. Worse than a doppelganger. There is so much more to this that he doesn't know.

Stunned, the teen watches as Alice throws her good arm out and suddenly Dean is flying through the air. The hunter slams into the wall and lands in a heap, unmoving. It's then that she realizes that something is wrong and she spins, looking for Sam.

There is the sound of something rushing past Tate. He can almost feel the air stir as it flies past. There is a _thunk _and a moment of suspension; everything is stilled. Tate is aware of the minute things: a dust mote sparkling in midair, the tang of blood lacing the air, a muscle twitching under his right eye. The way Alice's body has jerked and gone still, hands falling to her sides.

Then, movement. Out of the corner of his eye Tate can see Sam straightening, grimly smiling.

"Dean's right," the hunter says in a soft, sure voice. "You are small potatoes."

Alice looks down and stares dumbly at the knife sticking out of her chest, right over her heart. She barely has time to scream before she seems to implode with some internal fire. There is a brief flash and her body falls to the ground, quite dead.

It's all over so _fast._ That's what Tate can't get over. After all this time, after getting attacked by his doppelganger and threatened by Patterson's to running away and hiding out with Miles and Jen. All those lost hours and hours of sleep, worrying about his parents, his friends. Wondering if anyone he knew was safe. If maybe he was somehow to blame for any danger they could potentially be in.

And then Sam and Dean show up. Suddenly things are moving so fast his head is spinning. It's like he's been caught up in this whirlwind of circumstances way beyond his control and the brothers and Miles are the only things keeping he and Jen from being swept away.

_Miles._ It's more than Tate can think about but he can't get it out of his mind. He can't stop thinking about it: the thing that looked liked his sister coming at him while he tries to pull the trigger, tries to get his brain to process that this isn't really Jen he's about to shoot. Then Miles is there, wrapping his blood soaked arms around her, grabbing the handle of that knife she's holding and thrusting it in.

Miles. Standing in front of him after the body crumbles into dust. All Tate can do is stare back in bewildered amazement. He can still see the expression, the look of tranquility on the man's face. Like he's done something he'd set out to do a long, long time ago. He looks satisfied. And then there's the sound of the gun, deafening in his ears, and he almost feels the bullet himself. It's not the way Miles drops to the floor like a sack, dead before he hits the ground, that he can't stop replaying in his mind. It's the way Miles smiles at Tate the moment before Alice shoots him, like he's trying to assure him that what's happening isn't so bad. That it's okay.

Looking at Miles' body, it all becomes too much. Miles is really dead. He's really standing in a pool of his blood. There really is a bunch of kids with their hands tied behind their backs in that room behind him, and everyone is really safe now. He's relieved beyond measure, flooded with gratefulness and disbelief. He's overwhelmed by the plaintive urge to lie down and cry, like a baby. And that doesn't sound so bad, maybe.

Tate is barely aware that he's falling as his eyes roll up in his head. He definitely doesn't feel himself hit the ground.

* * *

Sam sees Tate faint but he doesn't dwell on it beyond that. He'll be fine. The younger Winchester rushes to his brother, stepping over the demon's remains. He's still shocked that the knife Tate slipped him had actually _killed _Alice and that his gamble had paid off. Again, he doesn't spend too much time dwelling on it, will marvel on it later. He doesn't have the time right now. Less than five minutes ago Sam was bound and at the mercy of the Alice and the doppelgangers. Less than five minutes ago Dean was conscious. Sam is painfully aware that time is slipping though his fingers, time that he can't afford to get away on him. Dean is a crumple of limbs and he hasn't stirred since he was flung by the demon. Sam gently feels his limbs, straightening them, as he goes through the motions of checking his brother for critical injuries. Finding none, he pats his brother's cheek gently. Dean's simultaneously burning up and shaking like he's been dunked in a frozen lake. Sam can't remember the last time he's ever seen his brother this sick. His lips are blue and Sam can hear the wet rattle of his lungs.

_He needs a hospital. Right now._

But what about those kids? And Tate and Jen? He'll need to do something with them, at least for the time being until he knows the coast is clear and he can let them return home. He settles on hiding them in a hotel room until he can get Dean the care he so urgently needs. He needs to get Tate up and everyone moving.

It's then that he feels a hand on his shoulder.

"Sam."

Castiel.

Sam looks up, relieved. The angel is looking down, face drawn with concern. Cas hunkers down, touching Dean on the shoulder. "You take him to the hospital; I'll deal with everyone else. I'll take them home." It's as though the angel has read his mind, and Sam nearly slumps with the relief of being able to share the burden with someone.

"It's good to see you, Cas," Sam tells the angel. And it is. "Better late than never."

Cas nods once. "I'm sorry I couldn't get back sooner." The angel straightens and moves to Tate. He stoops and touches the teen's forehead briefly; Tate's eyes fly open and he shoots up as though a bucket of water has just been thrown on him. The teen looks around wildly, making inarticulate sounds. Then he sees Cas and relaxes.

"How-? When did you-?" Tate can't complete a sentence to save his life but he doesn't get much of a chance, either. Jen is suddenly there, throwing her arms around Tate's shoulders, sobbing. Behind them are the four high school students, cautiously making their way into the garage. It can't be helped; they see Miles' corpse. Sam has to block out the sounds of dismay he can hear them making. He focuses instead on the most important thing: getting Dean out of here.

Sam slings his brother's arm around his shoulders, heaves them both up. Dean moans but otherwise doesn't make much sound, doesn't wake. His body is blazing hot, blasting Sam with sickly heat, and his head lolls against Sam's shoulder, slackly unconscious. He takes a second to balance himself, steadies Dean against him. The elder Winchester moans again, coughs.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam murmurs urgently. "I gotcha. What do you say we get out of here, huh? Go find a nice hospital." He hitches Dean up again. His older brother's knees are like overcooked noodles and they won't support his weight. He turns to Castiel.

"What are you going to do? About them?"

The angel looks to the Burke siblings and the other teens in turn before answering. He fixes Sam with a steady look.

"You've killed the one who summoned the doppelgangers here, that means you've broken the curse. It is safe for them to return home now, the doppelgangers impersonating them will have been destroyed." The angel holds his breath a moment, and Sam understands.

"I'm waiting for the 'but,' here, Cas." Sam tells the angel.

The angel's voice and expression are frank, direct. He answers Sam without so much as blinking. "But," he concedes, "it's too dangerous for them to leave here with their memories intact. It could make them targets for more doppelgangers. I'm going to erase their memories from the moment of their abduction on. I can do that much, but I can't fill the holes this will create with false recollections. It will just be a blank spot in their memory."

Sam thinks it over briefly and nods. It's definitely a reasonable action. He looks over at Tate, Jen, and the kids. They are obviously shaken, and all things considering why wouldn't they be? Miles' bloodied body is in full view, and Sam knows that the ex hunter would never have wanted to add to their trauma like this. Not to mention being hauled off by their exact replica, tied up and shut away. Yeah, erasing their memory would definitely be for the best, even if it will create unexplainable gaps in their memories.

"Okay," Sam tells the angel.

"But then we won't remember you guys, right?" Tate's voice is quiet, hesitant. He's looking back and forth at Cas and the younger Winchester. "Jen and me, we won't remember you guys or any of it. That means Miles, too. I won't remember how he rescued me and brought us in to his apartment and watched over us. Protected us. I'll just remember him as…Miles, the janitor at my school." Tate breaks off and shakes his head. Tears fill his eyes and he brushes them away furiously.

Sam feels Dean shift slightly as Tate speaks. He's not sure how much of what the teen said was actually understood by his older brother, but he knows what Dean would have said if he were able. It's the same thing that he would say himself. It's also what Miles would have said if he had survived.

"That's how he wants you to remember him, Tate. He would never have wanted you to find out who he really was or what he used to do, because that could only mean that you were in danger somehow."

He manages to smile at Tate, despite how wearied he feels. He reflects hollowly on how losing people has stopped shocking him by now; it only adds to the constant ache he's carrying. It's all part of the burden he and Dean shoulder. This one goes on the yoke, too.

"For what it's worth, Tate, we won't forget about you. We won't forget what you did." Sam looks to the teen's sister, standing with her hand on her brother's shoulder. "You saved her, you know. You saved us, too." He motions to Dean, slumped against Sam and fully unconscious again. "Thank you, Tate."

Tate nods, subdued, as Jen hugs him.

Sam turns to Cas. "The bodies," he says, indicating the room with the corpses. And then there's Patterson's doppelganger, which for some reason didn't dissolve into dust like the others. Is it because it was shot with a normal gun and not killed with a supernatural weapon? If Sam wasn't in such a hurry that would have been an interesting theory to consider. Then he remembers something, something important that he said to Miles the other night.

"Cas, Miles' body. We need to burn it. I promised him a hunter's burial and I need to give it to him."

The angel nods without a flicker of hesitation. "I can keep it somewhere safe in the meantime. Just go, Sam. Don't worry."

It's a little funny. Sam's been worrying since he was little and he found out what his family does for a living. He takes the advice with a grain of salt, but it's a genuine gesture when he reaches out and clasps Cas' shoulder.

"Thanks, Cas." Sam looks over the angel's shoulder and meets eyes with Tate and Jen.

Tate smiles tremulously. "So, uh. This is it, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam agrees quietly. "I think so."

Tate nods, suddenly awkward.

"I don't know what to say. 'Thanks' seems kind of weak."

"Thanks is fine," Sam returns the smile, feels slightly uplifted. "Take care of yourself. And your sister." There's not much else he can say so he adjusts Dean again and starts walking, heading for the Impala.

Dean stirs slightly, tries to lift his head. He doesn't quite manage but he's awake enough to speak in a voice little more than a breathy wheeze.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"You get…the bitch?"

"I got her, Dean."

Coughing, then. "That's good…good." Then he laughs, or at least Sam thinks it's a laugh. It comes out as a thin whistle of air. "That...pigsticker of a knife actually worked?" Dean has to stop and pull more air into his struggling lungs before he manages to gasp out, "Where…we going?"

"To a doctor. Like you promised."

Dean doesn't answer right away and Sam thinks that maybe he's slipped back under. He's surprised when his older brother speaks up again, sighing.

"A promise…is a promise, I guess."

Sam smiles wryly.

"Yes, it is."

* * *

Sam burns Miles' body the next day.

True to his word, Cas had hidden the ex hunter's body. In the Minnesota woods. Although Sam absolutely hates the thought of leaving Dean alone in the hospital he allows Cas to zap him to Miles. He had managed to wait until his brother was stabilized but he couldn't put it off any longer out of respect to the ex hunter. The pyre was already thoughtfully built by the angel and together he and Sam watch in silence as the fire consumes its offering.

It feels strange to Sam, to be doing this with Castiel. He tries not to think about when he and Dean burned Dad's body, tries to ignore how strange it feels to be standing here doing this with someone other than his brother.

The younger Winchester reaches into his pocket, pulls out the spell bags Miles had made for Jen and Tate and throws them into the flames. He tries to think of something to say in memory of this man who protected another person's life with his dying breath.

He thinks of saying to the fire and the bundled shape inside it that it was a good death. Then he thinks better of it. He knows it's not true. For a hunter, there's no such thing as a good way to die.

You just die.

* * *

It's another two days before Dean even opens his eyes. More time would have been nice but it's enough for Sam. Their insurance is so transparent it has holes, and it's only a matter of time before they get busted. He has to get Dean out of here. Breaking out of hospitals proves to be much easier when you are in the company of someone like Cas. Dean's way too out of it to protest to being zapped; within minutes they are speeding away from the hospital.

Cas glances over at Dean, wrapped in blankets and propped up in the back of the Impala. Lying down on his back is out of the question because it makes breathing too difficult. The blue tinge has left his lips but he's still incredibly ill. The mountain of antibiotics he's on can attest to that.

"Are you sure that it's wise to move him so far?" the angel queries, looking back to Sam. Sam flicks a quick look in the rearview mirror at his brother, fast asleep, before he answers.

"Not really," he confesses. "But Dean wasn't kidding earlier when he said that we were on our last credit card. I barely have enough gas money to make it to Bobby's as it is. We can't afford a hotel, definitely not as long as Dean would need. Bobby has connections; he knows how to get more meds if we need them. Besides," Sam rubs his face in a characteristically Dean-like way before he continues, "I think it would be best for Dean if he woke up in a familiar place. Don't you?"

Sam was hoping that somehow Dean would magically get better once the demon was dead but deep down he knew that this wouldn't be the case. Alice had nothing to do with Dean's severe bout of pneumonia. It was all his doppelganger. Although he couldn't directly blame it for trying to warn Castiel and help Dean and Tate by bringing them the knife it had definitely put the older Winchester through the gears. The doctors had looked at Sam with accusation, asking why it had taken so long to get his brother the medical attention he was so clearly in dire need of. Sam can't even bring himself to think about how little time they had told him his brother would have had if he had gone any further without assistance. Even now, after a few days of being pumped with drugs and fluids intravenously, Dean's sicker than Sam can ever remember him being. He sleeps but it's not a restful kind of sleep. His breathing is all kinds of screwed up, panty and shallow. He still has a raging fever. Not as high as when he arrived at the hospital and he was pushing 105 degrees, but it's still a legitimate cause for concern and Sam has been pulling over frequently to check on it. Every few seconds the elder Winchester coughs and he's muttering and twitching, delirious.

If Cas has an argument against Sam's plan he doesn't voice it. He doesn't offer help when Dean becomes restless, thrashing in his sleep and crying out, knowing that this is one thing Sam prefers to do without help. He looks on while the hunter tends to his brother, giving him water and his pills, checking his temperature with their newly acquired thermometer. The last reading makes Sam frown, and when he starts the Impala up again he is definitely driving faster than he was moments earlier. His knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel.

They drive on in silence for a long time before Sam speaks again.

"Cas? Dean's doppelganger came to you and warned you about the danger. It gave Dean and Tate some special kind of knife that kills doppelgangers _and _demons. Why did it help us? You said you had a theory."

The angel shifts, uneasy. "I'm not sure if this is something you want to hear, Sam."

Sam lifts an eyebrow, considering. "Probably not," he agrees. Waits for Cas to continue.

The angel does, with a sigh.

"Sam," he begins, "I know that Dean didn't give you any specific details of hell and what it did to him, or what Alastair made him do."

Sam waits for Cas to continue, his chest tightening up.

"I know Dean told you that he did terrible things to the souls he tortured when he got off the rack. And he's right, he did. Unimaginable acts, Sam. Things that you could never dream of. The pain that was inflicted on him, what he inflicted onto others," the angel's eyes fix him with an unwavering stare, "words can't describe."

Sam knows this. He _knows_ it. He wakes up knowing it every single day. But he knows it most of all whenever he watches Dean sleeping, because his brother has never once slept through the night since he came back from there. He never used to move around while he dreams but now he does. He struggles and shouts in the dead of night, bolting upright in bed with wide, frightened eyes and drenched in sweat. It was unsettling at first for Sam when his brother would abruptly drag him from his sleep with his yells. Now it's the norm. That is to say, it's the norm when Dean actually does go to sleep at all. Countless times Sam has gone to bed while Dean was still awake to find his brother still up and about the next morning. Sam knows it's because of hell, because of what Dean saw and endured. What Dean did.

"You think Dean's time in hell has something to do with it?" Sam asks. Castiel nods once, affirmatively.

"Your brother has done something unusual, Sam. He's gone to hell and come back. That is…unheard of. It makes Dean's situation with his doppelganger unique. If a doppelganger is supposed to be the opposite of its original, either bad or good, what does one do with a good person who has gone to hell and done terrible things like Dean has?"

Sam understands what Castiel is saying. Dean, whose MO has always been saving people, is not like any other person out there. After he broke in hell he wasn't Dean at all anymore. All the pain and agony he doled out, the torture he committed: it wasn't him. Not really, anyway. So what does a doppelganger do with that? How can it mirror something like that?

"So it defected," Sam mused out loud. "The doppelganger crossed the floor and joined the other side, since that's what Dean did in hell. So while good Dean goes bad, bad Dean goes good. Opposite actions."

Cas pauses before responding. "That's what I would have done, if I were Dean's doppelganger."

Sam mulls it over. He doesn't have a counter explanation so he accepts Castiel's theory. Then he asks the question he doesn't want to ask before he can stop himself.

"So then, what about my doppelganger? Where's it been in all this?" He's not sure if doppelgangers can have kin or not, if it works that way, but Sam finds it an uncomfortable thought if it does. "Even if it's my evil twin, don't you think it would have come around?"

Sam doesn't want to think about it. He does anyway: if Sam's doppelganger didn't get itself involved in this what could that possibly mean? If it's Sam's opposite and thus his evil twin, why didn't it try to stop Dean's doppelganger from helping them? Could it possibly mean that Sam's doppelganger never got involved because it wasn't evil in the first place? Then that would mean-

_No, Winchester. Get a grip on yourself. _Sam gives his head a rough shake. He's not evil. He's not. He's not saying yes to Lucifer.

Castiel's voice snaps Sam out of his thoughts.

"I don't think you have a doppelganger, Sam. I believe it's for the same reason: you're unique. You have demon blood in you, you're Lucifer's vessel. No doppelganger can replicate that."

"You're not just saying that to make me feel better, are you?" Sam jokes weakly. He feels washed out and hung to dry. And extremely grateful for the small comfort Castiel has just given him.

The angel frowns. "I don't understand how my saying something can make you feel better. Are you unwell?"

Sam actually manages to laugh. It feels amazing.

* * *

It's been a long drive.

Sam has had to pull over more times than he can count. Once during a particularly nasty storm because Dean had started coughing and couldn't stop, not even after his face purpled from lack of air. Sam had pulled over and climbed into the back seat, pounding on his brother's back until something dislodged in Dean's throat and he began to breathe. But with the return of his ability to draw in air came his gag reflex and Dean had to lean out of the opened car door and vomit. Sam felt as ineffectual as he had during the hunt and he could only watch his brother get sicker. All he could do was put his hand between Dean's shoulder blades, feeling the fever pouring off of him, and wait for the heaving to stop. When it finally did Dean was so exhausted he didn't fight Sam as the younger brother pulled him back inside the car and rearranged the blankets around him. He was unconscious before Sam could crack a new bottle of water, and it was a struggle to rouse the elder Winchester enough to drink. After that, Dean slept like the dead for the rest of the drive.

Bobby opens the door before Sam has time to knock, backing up his wheelchair to give room for entrance into his house. He and Cas have Dean between them, each with an arm slung across their shoulders. Bobby looks them all up and down.

"Christ, Sam. You guys look terrible. _Especially _him." The hunter gestures to Dean, who is too far gone to know what's going on. If it weren't for Sam and Cas holding him up the hunter would be prostrate on the floor. There is a note of contained emotion in Bobby's voice that Sam does not miss. He instantly feels safe, like he can let his guard down.

He feels likes he's come home.

"It's good to see you too, Bobby," he says warmly, eyes pricking with heat.

* * *

It's the worst part of it all, waiting for Dean to come back to him.

Dean hasn't really come fully awake in the three days they've been at Bobby's, and Sam hasn't moved from his brother's side. He's aware of Bobby silently wheeling into the room from time to time, checking up on them. He's also aware that Castiel has left, off searching for God again or something like that. But mostly Sam just sits and watches, waiting for some indication that Dean needs something. He gives his brother his antibiotics and Tylenol like clockwork, forcing Dean to drink when he's not lucid enough to take fluids without coercion. He spoons soup into his brother's mouth and waits patiently for some sign of revival. Even when Dean does rouse somewhat he can't keep his eyes open for more than two seconds. He's not strong enough to talk, either.

Like right now, for example. Sam puts the tray supporting the barely touched soup off to the side, leans over his brother. As he slides his hand under Dean's head, supporting him as he brings the glass of water to his lips, the elder Winchester cracks his eyes open.

Sam smiles, gentles his voice to barely above a whisper.

"Hey," he says softly. "How are you feeling?" He gives Dean a drink and lowers his head back down on the pillow and grips his brother's hand. His skin feels dry and much too hot, and he presses the back of his own hand against Dean's cheek and neck, testing.

"If you don't start feeling better soon I'm going to have to take you back to the hospital," Sam threatens good naturedly, but he can't keep the worry from seeping into his voice. "So if you don't shape up I'm going to haul your heavy ass back out to the car and we're going for a drive. And you don't want that, do you?"

Dean's already fallen asleep long before Sam finishes talking. The younger Winchester sighs and sits back down again.

"Just get better. Okay, Dean?"

* * *

That night proves to be the worst since arriving back at Bobby's. Sam's sleeping on a cot by Dean's bed on Bobby's insistence, because in his words "there's no sense having one idjit watch the other idjit sleep when they both could be getting some rest." Sam has to admit that he can't argue. He drove straight from Seattle to Bobby's porch and if he never sees a can of Red Bull again it will be way too soon. It's difficult for Sam to sleep, despite how tired he is. Instead, he lies on his back and stares up at the ceiling, listening to Dean's labored breathing.

He doesn't know how long he lies there in that same position; he isn't even aware of falling asleep. But obviously he managed to do precisely that because suddenly he's being jerked awake by Dean's ragged shouts. He's up and by Dean's bedside in an instant, a tangle of limbs and sheets as he throws himself off the cot. His brother is thrashing around, shouting but not making any sense. He doesn't stop when Sam grabs him by the shoulders and pins him to the mattress; the younger Winchester flinches at how burning hot his brother is.

"Dean! Dean, wake up! Come on!" But Dean is lost in his nightmare, delirious. A stray fist lands a glancing blow on Sam's jaw and he's so surprised he nearly lets go, seeing stars for a brief moment.

"Good Lord," Bobby's voice cuts above the noise as he comes into the room, reaching out from his wheelchair and catching Dean's wrists. "I thought someone was murdering the boy." By now Dean is winding down, exhausted, and his body goes lax.

"Sammy?"

Sam looks down and sees with relief that Dean is awake and looking right up at him. He and Bobby release their grip. Sam reaches for the glass of water on the bedside table, cupping the back of Dean's head. His brother is definitely burning up again and Sam looks over at Bobby and can see the older man is thinking the same thing. He looks back down at Dean, smiles reassuringly as he gets his brother to drink.

"Well, I hope that wasn't a sex dream," Sam lamely kids. He sets the glass down and feels Dean's forehead before his brother turns his face away in protest.

"Sammy, you have to say no. Or I have to say yes. That's what I said to me, five years from now. I don't want Famine to be right, Sammy. Please."

Dean's voice breaks off and he begins murmuring to himself, a stream of words, sounds that aren't connected to each other. But Sam doesn't need to hear what Dean's saying to know what he's dreaming about because he's got the same memory replaying in his head.

_You can smirk and joke and lie to your brother, lie to yourself. But not to me. I can see inside you, Dean. I can see how broken you are, how defeated. You can't win and you know it. But you just keep fighting, just…keep going through the motions. You're not hungry, Dean, because inside you're already dead._

"Say the word and we'll head straight to the hospital, Sam," Bobby says gently, interrupting Sam's dismal thoughts. "To hell with worrying about the fake insurance. It's your call."

Sam nods dumbly. He can't process anything right now. He knows that Bobby is waiting for him to answer but he can't formulate any kind of response. He's back in that diner again and he can see Dean struggling while Famine's demons restrain him. He can hear the Horseman's words ringing in his ears. He wonders numbly if maybe Famine meant for Sam to hear him say those things to Dean, if it was all part of the plan. Chip away at both brothers simultaneously. Strike at one and you strike the other.

_Bullshit._

Sam won't stand for it. He's not about to let him or Dean get played this way. They aren't going to pit brother against brother, not anymore.

Sam turns to Bobby.

"You know anyone who can get their hands on some oxygen? Or stronger meds? Maybe someone medically trained that makes house calls?"

Bobby pauses, considering.

"I'm sure I could call in a couple of favors."

Sam nods. "Okay, then."

He turns back to his brother.

* * *

Waking up has definitely got to be his least favorite activity. It's difficult going; his head is pounding and the light hurts his eyes. Dean comes around to the sound of someone breathing in his ear. Heavy, congested, annoying wheezes and he wants to tell Sam to take a Benadryl if his allergies are that frigging bad. There must be a store near the hotel where he can get some if he needs.

When he opens his eyes, however, he is suddenly aware of two things.

One. He isn't in a hotel room. He's in Bobby's spare bedroom. Two. It's not Sam's hoarse breathing that's annoying the piss out of him; it's his own.

Oh, and three. He feels like crap.

Sam is there, hovering. Dean wants to snark something about his extremely close proximity but he sees the look of intense relief on his brother's face and it's enough to shut him up. Besides, he has the feeling that they came close to something really bad happening. Then he remembers-

"Tate!" Dean says suddenly. The force he puts behind his voice makes him wince and cough breathlessly, which does nothing to relax his brother. His hands are all over Dean, prodding and pulling, adjusting him into a slight sitting position.

"There," Sam says, patting at the blankets covering Dean like he's a frigging baby. "That better?"

Again, Dean passes on the opportunity for a smartass comment because yes, it is better. Sam pulls his chair closer and sits down.

"How are you feeling? Is your chest still really sore?"

Dean thinks about the question for a moment before he shakes his head. Sam exhales.

"Okay, good. You were complaining about that earlier. It's not a good sign." Dean must have a _what the hell? _look on his face because Sam supplies the answer before he even asks the question. "You have pneumonia in both your lungs. It got really bad for a bit back there. You're still pretty sick, too, so take it easy, okay?"

Dean's not going to argue with Sam on that one. He doesn't have the energy even if he wanted to. He's already falling asleep and he's been awake for all of two minutes. Awesome.

Sam can tell that he's fading so he keeps his explanation brief.

"Tate and Jen are fine. So are the missing kids. I don't know if you remember this or not but it was a demon behind it all."

Dean remembers now that Sam's helping his memory along. It all feels hazy and seems so faraway from now and not only mere days ago. He knows he's smiling because he can feel his chapped lips crack as he does.

"Nice demon-free hunt I found us, huh?"

Sam returns the smile. He looks wan and tired but overjoyed.

"Yeah. Way to go, jerk."

"Bitch."

"Just go to sleep, Dean."

Dean already is.

* * *

He relapses the next day, but his fever doesn't climb quite as high as it had before, when things got desperate and Bobby apparently had brought in some outside help and got a friend to secure some medical supplies. Dean's not sure how many days ago that was nor does he care. All he knows is that he won't admit it if pressed but the oxygen is a lifesaver, and most likely literally, too.

He remembers bits and pieces, like tossing and turning on the bed and feeling like he'd been shoved in an oven. He remembers Sam's cool hands on him, steadying him, holding the bucket for him when he coughs too hard and throws up from the effort. He remembers sleeping in intermittent batches of time and never knowing if it was morning or afternoon when he was awake. He aches all the way from his scalp to his toes. He can hear voices, Sam and Bobby. It soothes him to know that they're nearby and he relaxes again into a deep sleep.

When he comes awake again next it's to the sound of Sam talking. Dean keeps his eyes closed and listens. It takes a moment before he realizes that it's him his brother is addressing. His face and neck is being dabbed with a wet cloth.

"I know you don't want to talk about this," Sam is saying. "But I don't care. You didn't see yourself, Dean. You didn't see how sick you were. But I did. I saw. And maybe I should have gotten it in writing from one of the doctors because I know you won't take it seriously when I tell you – but you could have died. It was close, Dean. And it was getting kinda hairy for a while there. It still is, but you're getting better." There's a pause as Sam takes a deep breath and exhales shakily. "You're getting better," he repeats.

"I know I'd never get you to admit it, but Famine got to you. I saw your face; he got under your skin. And I'm _telling _you, Dean, that it's not true. None of it. You _can _win, we're _going _to win. You're not broken." There's a soft chuckle. "You're screwed as hell, but you're not broken. And you're not dead inside. I promise you that you're very much alive. I know because Bobby and I have been working our asses off keeping you that way." There's the sound of a chair pushing back and scraping against the floor. The wet cloth disappears. A small brush of air as the bedroom door opens.

"You're also not asleep."

The soft click as the door closes behind Sam.

End.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for sticking this through. I'd love to hear your thoughts. Until next time...


End file.
